


As Far as You and Me Go

by distira



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1972692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The love story of two sore losers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Far as You and Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for **footie_bang** two years ago and **nahco3** brought it to my attention that i hadn't transferred it here. the link to download the fanmix no longer works but i believe the 8tracks playlist is still up and running and the mix is AMAZING, all the love in the world to **meretricula** for it! and of course, eternal thanks to **luxover** for helping me come up with the idea and making sure i saw it through to the end, and for still loving me when all i was emailing her was bits of this-- a true friend, ladies and gents.

  


 

part i | [listen](http://8tracks.com/meretricula/hand-in-unlovable-hand-part-i)

**Benvolgut** // Manel  
 **Kiss With A Fist** // Florence + The Machine  
 **The One You Really Love** // The Magnetic Fields  
 **What Would Jay-Z Do?** // Ben Lee  
 **Roll Away Your Stone** // Laura Marling (covering Mumford  & Sons)  
 **Shut Your Mouth** // Garbage  
 **I Think I Need a New Heart** // The Magnetic Fields  
 **Paris Is Burning** // St. Vincent  
 **You Can't Always Get What You Want** // The Rolling Stones

 

 

part ii | [listen](http://8tracks.com/meretricula/hand-in-unlovable-hand-part-ii)

**Truce** // The Dresden Dolls  
 **Country Leaver** // The Dandy Warhols  
 **The Things We Did and Didn't Do** // The Magnetic Fields  
 **Postcards From Italy** // Beirut  
 **Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On)** // Robert Plant  & Alison Krauss  
 **Dearest Forsaken** // Iron  & Wine  
 **Love Is Not A Competition (But I'm Winning)** // Kaiser Chiefs  
 **We Used to Be Friends** // The Dandy Warhols  
 **Some Things Don't Work Out** // Joe Purdy

 

 

part iii | [listen](http://8tracks.com/meretricula/hand-in-unlovable-hand-part-iii)

**Good Day** // The Dresden Dolls  
 **Long-Forgotten Fairytale** // The Magnetic Fields  
 **Jerusalem** // Mirah  
 **Somebody More Like You** // Nickel Creek  
 **Fix You** // Coldplay  
 **Bigmouth Strikes Again** // Placebo  
 **Antebellum** // Vienna Teng  
 **Somebody That I Used To Know** // Gotye  
 **No Children** // The Mountain Goats

 

 

bonus track

**Egmont Overture, Opus 84** // Ludwig van Beethoven; Anton Nanut; Ljubljana Radio Symphony Orchestra

 

 

> _"Today, tomorrow, and always- I will have Barcelona in my heart." –José Mourinho, translating for Sir Bobby Robson, 1997_

It starts after a loss.

(Really it starts after a win, after they stood from a balcony together and sang the _Cant_ and José watched the score go from 2-2 to 2-3, smiled with victory when he saw Pep raise the trophy; winning for José is a minute spent crouching near the touchline, whispering into Pep's ear what needs to be done. It is sitting in the dugout watching the score change from 2-2 to 3-2, and it is smiling without hidden intentions when the final whistle blows. But the first time they fall into bed together is after a loss.)

"Can you-" Pep starts, in the parking lot. He stops, turns to look at José, and José sees how tired he looks, the purple under his eyes and how his eyebrows are permanently knitted together. Then Pep cracks the tiniest of smiles, his professionalism back in place. "Come to mine for a while? Shouldn't wallow alone," he says, and José isn't sure if he's talking about himself or José. 

He says yes, regardless. "I'll follow," he offers, reaching into his trouser pocket for his car keys, but Pep shakes his head. 

"I can drive," Pep says, and José hesitates for a second, because he knows what that means; he knows they'll show up to the training grounds in the same car tomorrow. 

"Okay," he says, his voice heavy, and the wrinkles in Pep's forehead smooth out almost imperceptibly. José gets into the car. 

Pep offers him a drink and Jose accepts, mostly so he has something to do with his hands. They sit on the couch, almost stiffly, and Pep flicks through channels on the TV until he finds the highlights. 

José does this every night, watch the Barcelona highlights, but it seems so much more masochistic now, with Pep sitting on his right, visibly flinching for every mistimed pass, every goal against. José ignores it at first, his fingers itching for a notepad so he can start working on how to fix it, how to help pull everything back together for the next game. 

"Turn it off," he says eventually, reaching for the remote. 

"Why?" Pep asks, but he lets José turn the TV off. 

"You don't need to be watching this right now," José tells him. He's not sure if it's the coach in him that's saying it, or if it's the part of him that's concerned by the tension rolling off of Pep in waves. It's possible, he thinks, that the two are one and the same. "That's my job, not yours." 

"It is, though," Pep tells him. "My job. This team is my job." José frowns. "To hold things together," Pep clarifies. "I can't do that if I don't know what went wrong." 

"You already know," José says, because he and Pep are alike in as many ways as they are different. He knows that Pep catalogues every moment of every match as it happens, just like he does. And then, "hold yourself together first, you look exhausted." 

"I am," Pep says, so simple and opposite to everything he says in practices and in press conferences. 

"Come on, then," José says, and he stands up first, even though it's not his house. Holds out a hand. 

"Why?" 

He considers his words carefully. "Taking you to bed," he says after a pause, and Pep accepts the offer, lets José pull him up. 

That's as much lead as José allows himself to take. He follows Pep to the bedroom, where he stands quietly and watches as Pep meticulously folds down the bedcovers. He waits until Pep nods at him before even toeing off his shoes, and then he still waits, until Pep takes his wrist and sits him down on the edge of the bed, tugs the team shirt that José's still wearing over his head and settles heavily in José's lap. 

It's not needy, exactly, the way Pep presses his face into José's neck and breathes for a second before José cups his cheek in his palm, but he knows that Pep does need something. (He knows that Pep needs a lot more than what José can let him have- Pep needs Barcelona, needs the locker room united and every journalist in Spain forbidden from writing about him, and José can't give him that. All he has is control, and Pep needs that more than José does right now, so José lets him have it.) 

Pep's fingers trail across José's torso and José makes no move to stop him when his hands trail farther down, skimming his stomach and scrabbling at his belt. 

José lets Pep slide one-two-three fingers into him, and it's only an afterthought that he's hard, a pleasant surprise that he notices when Pep slides his cock in all the way. José's too focused on watching Pep, seeing the tension drain out of his shoulders and watching the set of his mouth become increasingly sloppy, until everything professional has been stripped away and all that's left is Pep's lips, parted in something like want. 

Pep comes first, and he settles on top of José again, heavier than before, boneless and sated, until José pushes at his shoulder and he rolls off. He reaches for José's cock, but José shrugs him away, finishes himself off. 

"Next time," Pep promises. "Sorry, I should've. Next time." 

"Don't worry," José says, because Pep seems to have missed the point. He looks relaxed, though, sprawling on the bed while José slips into the bathroom to clean up. 

"The guest bed isn't made up," Pep tells him when he comes back. "I can, if you want, of course. But you could stay here, also." 

José stays. 

(Pep kicks in his sleep, and José's fairly sure he snores through the night. They don't roll together, instead each talking a separate pillow and a separate side, but when José wakes up, his shoulders are bumping against Pep's, exactly in the middle of the bed.)

 

At practice the next day, José watches the training drills and doesn't look at his clipboard. He looks at Pep instead, and he can see Pep as if there are strings attached to every player and Pep is holding all of them in his hand, keeping them together. 

 

"The left back, that's the weakness," José says quietly. It's the end of the session, but a few of the players and trainers are still out on the training grounds. 

"Van Gaal tell you that?" Pep asks, dribbling one ball along the touchline and carrying another. He's turning in for the evening; José has waited for him to finish his extra footwork drills. 

"What? No," José says. "I was looking at film last night. If you can't feed anything down the middle, pull their left back outside of the box, they'll send someone to cover him and you'll have a target for a cross." 

Pep nods. "Thanks," he says. Genuine, as always. "Thank you." 

José sharpens the crease on the scouting report he's carrying and tucks it into his pocket. They've reached the benches and he's about to head down the tunnel to the offices when Pep speaks again. 

"You used to play, didn't you?" 

José turns to face Pep, who's holding out the ball he's carrying, offering it to him. "I did," José says. Pep already knows this. It had been a point of contention when José first came to Barcelona, maybe not specifically for Pep, but for most of the team. "It didn't turn out very well." 

"Professionally?" 

"Yes," José says, a little short. When he doesn't take the football, Pep kicks the one at his feet to José, who steps on it to stop it. He's wearing sneakers and track pants; next to him, Pep is wearing shorts and boots. "In Portugal, for a few years."

"Why didn't it turn out well?" Pep asks. He drops the ball he's holding and jogs back a few paces, gestures for José to pass to him. 

"Not fast enough," José says. "And not big enough to make up for it." He kicks the ball back to Pep, who dribbles a few paces and then sends it back to José. They go back and forth for a while, not at pace but not slowly either, until most of the other players have trickled off of the grounds and towards the showers. 

"I should go," José says, picking up the ball. "This was- fun, though." 

Pep shrugs. "You could've played," he says. "If you'd been here, they would've let you play." 

José knows it's true – he's seen the next generation of Barcelona stars playing in the lower divisions and at the youth level over the past year, and he knows that many of them are smaller or slower than he ever was. "Too bad I wasn't here," he says, not as bothered as he might have been three or four years ago. 

"We could've played together," Pep says, and he's smiling a little but he sounds almost rueful. 

"I was never _that_ good," José says drily. 

"Is it hard, though?" Pep asks. "Being around football all day, after-? I couldn't, I don't think. I would want to play too badly." 

"It's not," José tells him. "You only have control over the ball, but me? I have control over the entire team. Sometimes the other team, too." 

"Oh?" Pep laughs, surprised. "The translator has control over the entire team?" It's not an insult the way it might've been two years ago. They both know José's doing more than translate, these days. 

"Well," José says, grinning. He waves his hand dismissively. "I will, one day. Until then, I have control over you, so you'd better go for their left back on Sunday." 

Pep shakes his head, smiling. "Using me to play your football for you, yeah? I see." 

"You're good at that, I'm good at this," José shrugs. "Of course that's how it is." 

 

When Sunday comes and Pep sends a beautiful, lofting cross over the left back, a gorgeous cross which is picked off by Ronaldo for a goal, José shakes a fist in celebration on the sideline. From the field, Pep turns from the throng of his celebrating teammates and points at José.

 

Barcelona is full of good players- great players, even, but Pep is José’s favorite to watch. Watching Pep is like watching everything he’d wished he could’ve become as a player, and it should be frustrating –it was frustrating, at first- but somehow, it’s not. 

“Would you ever play anywhere else?” José asks, on the way back to Barcelona after a hard-fought away win. It's not entirely hypothetical; he's heard the rumors, keeps tabs of the mess the media has created.

“No,” Pep says. He’s always quiet after matches, José has learned. 

“Why not?” José asks. 

“Because Barcelona is-" Pep starts, but he stops himself. "I don't know. Maybe I would." He looks at José. "I'm old and injured," he says, only halfway trying for a joke.

"You're not old," José tells him. "You're not even thirty." But Pep shrugs, and José knows that the conversation is over.

“Do you think I should’ve cut inside, right before halftime? I think we could’ve had another goal if I did,” Pep asks. And then, without waiting for José to answer, “Do you want to come to mine for dinner?”

 

Most of the time, José doesn’t think of his players as existing off of the pitch. (He does think of them as _his_ , though, Pep in particular, even though they’re really Van Gaal’s.) It’s easier that way, to think of how he can use them rather than how they are, and so it’s strange for him to be in Pep’s home, drinking a beer as he watches Pep putter around the kitchen, fixing dinner. It's strange too that he's coming here for dinner after he's come here for sex, but that was different. That was still _captain Guardiola_ , even with his pants kicked across the room, sweating over José. 

This version of him is softer, wears sweatpants that sit low on his hips and bag at his feet, and a sweater that looks more like it should be worn with dress pants. He seems small here, not at all like the presence José has come to be able to pick out in a heartbeat on the field or in game tape. 

“What are you making?” José asks, leaning against the counter. 

“Pasta,” Pep says. “Chicken. Broccoli.” Simple food, José thinks. Athlete food. “You know, most houseguests offer to help,” Pep tells him, turning away from the stove to raise his eyebrows. 

José laughs. “We both know you don’t need help.”

“Do you really know that?” Pep asks, but he’s grinning. “I don’t seem to recall having cooked for you before, for all you know I could be a terrible chef.” 

“You aren’t,” José tells him, because Pep may not have cooked for him until now, but José _knows_ Pep, knows him the way only someone who has watched him for hundreds of hours picking apart his every strength and weakness can know a person. 

And José's right. Dinner isn't terrible, and then, unexpectedly, José finds himself lingering. They sit at Pep's table for an hour after the finish eating, and José is comfortable. He doesn't itch to go back to his own home and watch the footage of the match, content to sit and talk with Pep instead. 

"Drink?" Pep offers eventually. 

"Sure," José says, and Pep brings two more beers out of the kitchen. They move to the living room, settling on the couch but not turning the TV on, and José stays almost until it's too late to leave. 

"You can," Pep tells him. "Stay, if you want." 

José knows. "Not tonight," he says, even so, feeling for some reason that it's imperative he goes home. 

"Another time, then," Pep says easily. "Maybe I'll have you cook." 

José doesn't say 'yes', but he doesn't say 'no', either, and Pep smiles as he shows José to the door. 

 

 

"No Guardiola next match," Van Gaal says two weeks later, almost in passing. 

"Why not?" José asks, because last he knew, Pep was still the captain, still the pivote. 

"Another injury," Van Gaal says. "Happened this morning. He's in with the physios now." 

The cafeteria at the training grounds is loud. José pokes at his lunch with his plasticware. "How long?" he asks, because Van Gaal doesn't seem overly concerned. José knows that doesn't mean anything, he knows how Van Gaal is, but still. 

"We'll know once the physios tell us," Van Gaal says, and that is that. 

 

For the first time that he can remember, José calls Pep before Pep can call him. 

"How long?" he asks when Pep picks up. 

Pep's sigh comes across the telephone line loud, and José has to hold the phone away from his ear until Pep starts to talk. "This time?" he says. He sounds frustrated. "A few weeks, maybe a month."

"That's not bad," José says. "You'll still get the end of the season, and the World Cup."

"It's not-" Pep starts. José can picture him frowning. "It's just that this is happening again, you know? I thought, the last time, with my calf, that that would be it for the season, I'd at least get to finish it strong." 

José doesn't know exactly how to respond, so he snaps into manager mode. "You still can," he tells Pep. "This team will always be waiting for you to come back." 

"No, José," Pep says. The particular blend of tired and sad, with only the barest hint of anger, tugs at José's gut. "Barcelona won't wait for me. They're more than that, we both know it." 

"But you're the _best_ ," José argues. "How can a team be more than that?"

Pep ignores him. José is starting to get used to Pep ignoring him, ending conversations prematurely, and he doesn't like it, doesn't like that he's getting used to it instead of protesting it. "The kid, Xavi," he says. "The machine. He's good." 

"Shut up," José tells him. "You're the best, he's not." 

"I'm not going anywhere yet, if that's what you're worried about," Pep says drily. "They're renegotiating my contract." 

"Oh," José says, and then, "I'm not- I wasn't. Worried." 

Pep snorts. "Yes you were," he says. José rolls his eyes even though Pep can't see him. 

"Are you coming to practice tomorrow, then?" José asks. 

"Yeah," Pep says, serious again. "Physical therapy. Might come sit on the sideline with you." 

"Okay," José says. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." 

 

A few weeks turns into a month and Pep is still on the sideline with José at the end of training sessions, after he's out of physical therapy. And then a month turns into two and two turns into three, and the end of the season is looming.

"Surgery," Pep says, hollow, in the middle of May. 

Barcelona's all but won the league, is going to the final of the Copa del Rey again, and José has no doubt that the team will let Pep lift the trophies for them, even if he's not playing. He knows, Pep knows, and the management knows, that Pep still holds all of the strings, as if he were still in the center of the field, connected to every player. They love him, they'll give him the satisfaction of lifting the trophies and turning to face the crowd as their captain in spirit, if not on the pitch. 

He also knows that it won't be satisfying at all to Pep as long as he's not on the field. 

"When?" José asks. 

"June," Pep says, and it doesn't take more than a second or two for José to realize- the World Cup. 

"Barcelona's nice over the summer," he says slowly. He's trying, and it's not something he does very often. "I'll be here, keep you company maybe." 

Pep's face darkens slightly. "Sure," he says, and then he walks away, towards the dressing room to leave the training grounds. José feels bad, watching him go, and isn't quite sure why. Or, really, he is sure _why_ , but what he doesn't know is when he let it get this far.

 

José lives alone. 

He likes it that way- he has a nice house not far from the training grounds, and it's not big or elaborate, but it has a TV with a VCR so he can watch game tape late into the night. The kitchen is too big for one person and the refrigerator is always half empty, because José doesn't like to cook, and there's a coffee maker on the counter but it never gets used, because José drinks ice water when he needs to stay awake. 

He's not particularly neat- there's always a dish or two in the sink and his shoes are in a heap by the door. He doesn't straighten up for company because he never has company. 

As the season winds to a close and the World Cup looms, not for him because Portugal hasn't qualified, but because of Spain, José starts to wonder if he should start having company over every now and then. Except- he doesn't wonder about company, he wonders about Pep. 

In the end, he decides- he'll invite Pep over, but he won't clean. 

 

They haven't gotten together like this, Luis and Pep and José, since Laurent left, but they're the only ones really left in Barcelona for the summer, so it seems natural that they all converge at Luis's house to watch the World Cup. 

"At least you fucking qualified," Luis snaps when Pep makes a seemingly offhand remark about not being with the Spanish delegation. 

" _I_ didn't," Pep protests, but Luis just snorts at him, and that's the end of any serious conversation they have. 

"Drinks?" Luis offers, and he pulls out beers for Pep and José before they can respond. "So, France-" 

"Has Laurent," Pep says. "And Zidane. They should be ranked much higher." 

"But Bergkamp's with the Dutch," Luis points out. "Look at him with Arsenal, fucking phenomenal." 

"The Dutch aren't Arsenal," Pep tells him. "Besides, France has the new striker, Henry?" 

"You're both ignoring Brazil," José cuts in. "Look at Ronaldo, you've played with him, you know what he can do with the ball. The whole team, what's the nickname? The Samba Kings? They're the ones to watch for." 

Luis snorts again, and it goes on like that until they've each made a bracket, taped them to Luis's refrigerator, and agreed upon a substantial sum to the winner. 

"Nobody plays a pivote like you," José says, deep in a discussion of midfield tactics after France beats South Africa by three in their opening match. He doesn't mean for it to sting –he means it as a compliment, in all honesty- but the hurt on Pep's face doesn't go away for a long moment.

Luis saves him. "Not even I do," he says. "Maybe, you know, then Portugal would've qualified. Or maybe if this old man had gotten off his ass and actually trained, back in his playing days-"

"As if," Pep says, cracking the hint of a smile.

"Fuck you," José says, without malice, and Luis nods at him from across the table. 

Later, on his way out the door, he says, "thank you." 

Luis shrugs. "I know what you meant, but. How he is, you know, he just thinks he's not good enough." 

José nods. "He is, though. He- I mean, you know it as well as I do, he's the best there is." 

"For his position," Luis concedes, winking. "He's not going to take the Spain game well." 

"No, he won't," José agrees. "Should we- do this again?" 

"I was thinking, actually, that we should just not let him watch at all," Luis says. He raises his eyebrows, inclines his head slightly. "Distract him." José frowns when Luis winks again. "Don't worry, I really mean _you'll_ distract him, and I'll just be here to get him drunk afterwards. Or before, if that'd make it easier." He wiggles his eyebrows. 

"I don't understand Portuguese, but I can tell when you're talking about me," Pep calls from the driveway. 

"Vanity, thy name is Josep," Luis intones. Pep shakes his head and gets into his car. José turns back to Luis. 

"It's not a bad idea," he admits. 

"It would be a nice thing for you to do," Luis tells him. 

 

José drives over to Pep's the next afternoon. It feels strange, to go over without tailing Pep home from the training grounds, to be going without an invitation. 

"Hi," Pep says, surprised, when José knocks. "Are we- I didn't realize, when is Luis coming?" 

"He's not," José says. "Just me." 

"Oh," Pep says. "Well. Come in?" He steps back from the doorstep and José goes into the house, toes off his shoes and leaves them next to Pep's. "I was going to watch the game, if you want to watch." 

They venture further into the house and José can hear the pundits talking on TV, the pregame show to the Spain and Nigeria match that starts soon. 

"I don't want to," José says. 

Pep puts his crutch against the back of the couch. "Okay?" he says slowly, turning to face José. José takes a step towards him- Pep looks soft here, younger than he ever does in a Barcelona shirt. He's wearing training shorts and a t-shirt and day-old stubble litters his jawline. José steps in front of him and takes the remote control, turns the TV off. "What-" Pep starts, but José turns around and pushes on Pep's shoulders until Pep sits on the arm of the couch. José slides a leg between Pep's, and the boot on Pep's ankle knocks against his calf, the plastic cold. 

It's different than the last time- José starts in control, kissing Pep firmly, sliding his tongue between Pep's lips. Pep lets him for a while, moves his hands up and down José's back, and a swirling sort of want settles in José's stomach when Pep opens his legs further, lets José stand fully between them. 

It doesn't last long, though, before Pep tugs at José's shirt, not to take it off but to get José closer, and they both tumble over the arm of the couch. Pep's head hits the cushions and bounces up a little bit, knocks his forehead against José's jaw, and José laughed, surprised. 

They go back and forth for a while; Pep's shirt comes off first, but José gets his pants shoved down his thighs before Pep can slide out of his shorts. Their cocks brush and Pep gasps, surprised by the contact when José finally gets his shorts out of the way, and his head falls back against the couch, leaving the expanse of his neck for José to bite. Pep's stubble extends down most of his neck and it scrapes against José's lips, rough, and they feel chapped when he pulls away. 

"Lube?" he asks, his hand around Pep's cock, jacking him quickly. Pep grunts. 

"Bedroom," he says. José works his hand over the head of Pep's cock, and Pep bites his lip. "Who says you get to top, though?" 

"You did last time," José says, giving Pep's cock a last tug before climbing off of him and pulling his pants the rest of the way off before he goes to Pep's bedroom to grab the lube. 

Pep's touching himself when José returns, not even looking at the TV or the remote, and José smiles to himself. José coats his fingers with lube and clambers back between Pep's legs. He takes Pep's wrist with his free hand and pulls it away from Pep's cock, wanting to slow things down, make it last at least until halftime. Pep whines but lets him, pulls his hands up to settle on José's shoulders as José works a finger into him. His back arches when José pushes past the ring of muscle with his second finger and his legs fall further apart. José balances himself with his free hand on Pep's ribcage and he strokes the skin there in small circles with his thumb as he pushes a third finger in and opens Pep up until there's a steady stream of half-aborted noises coming from Pep. 

José slicks his cock up and rolls on a condom. When he slides into Pep, he does it slow, so Pep feels every inch of him, and Pep takes it until José's in all the way, digging blunt nails into José's shoulders. Then Pep pulls himself up and pushes at José until José is forced to lay back against the arm of the couch and Pep starts to ride him, slow and hard, until José's hips are stuttering up into him and he can't hang on any longer. 

He brings Pep off once he comes down, and Pep comes, sticky over his stomach. They don't move for a long minute, until it starts to get uncomfortable, so pep slides off of José and José ties off the condom, goes into the bathroom to clean up. 

He's expecting Pep to have turned on the match when he gets back, so he's surprised to find Pep in the kitchen instead, drinking a glass of water and wearing only his shorts. 

They don't check the score until well after the match is over, and Pep's face falls when he sees that Spain has lost. José kicks at him, not quite gently, and says, "I'll stay the night, if you want." 

"I want," Pep says, so José does. 

 

"Again," Pep says, just shy of a year later. "I need surgery again." 

He's been out for almost three months. 

José lets out a loud breath and folds the newspaper he's reading in half. "You might want to say specifically that you're getting surgery, in your presser," he says, skimming the article that's next to a picture of Pep. "They're saying you're in treatment for HIV." 

"I know," Pep says. He sounds sad, but not particularly concerned. 

"You aren't, right? Because I'd be a bit out of luck, you know," José says, dry enough that Pep knows he's joking. Pep just snorts in response. "How long are you going to put up with it, though?" 

"With what?" 

"With this bullshit," José says. He turns the page of the newspaper, not interested in finishing the article. 

Pep sighs. "I'm not really interested in transferring," he says. 

"That's not what I asked," José tells him. 

"I know," Pep says. "But I don't know the answer." 

"You could always follow Luis," José says, glib. 

"Is that confirmed?" 

"You'd know better than I would," José says. He shrugs, even though Pep can't see him. "His buyout's high enough, though, they don't have the money yet." 

"That's not exactly reassuring," Pep tells him. And then, "are you going to stay, even?" 

"Not sure," José shrugs. "I've had offers, but all as assistants." 

"There's nothing wrong with being an assistant," Pep says. "You're good at it." 

José bristles a little. "I know I am," he says. "I want to know if I'm good at being a head coach, too." 

"You are," Pep says. He'd know, José supposes; José's coached Barcelona a few times, in cup ties and in the Copa Catalunya. 

"So I might," José says. "Leave. If the right offer comes." 

 

One day, billboards of Luis wearing the new kit go up in the city. José passes one as he drives to the training ground and thinks, at least Pep will have his second-in-command. The next day, Luis announces his official transfer to Real Madrid. _The right offer_ , he says in a press conference. 

Barcelona calls for blood; José calls Pep. 

He gets voicemail three times, and then decides that enough is enough. He stops calling and does his dishes, reads _Mundo Deportivo_ and _AS_ , and starts going through the injury reports for the next match. He has his dinner, has a few beers, and is getting ready to turn in when the phone finally rings. 

"Are you staying?" Pep demands when he answers. 

"I don't know," José tells him, as he has for the past month. 

"At least you're being fucking honest about it," Pep grumbles. 

"Are you on a bender?" José asks, suspicious, because Pep doesn't curse often. 

"Not yet," Pep says. "Gaspart would love that, if I get hauled out of some club for getting into a fight. Drunk. Better yet, a gay club. That would make his fucking year, then he wouldn't have to _try_ anymore to get rid of me, and everyone would forget about- about Luis. I could just hand him my resignation along with the pap shots. Christ, José." 

"Well," José says, speaking slowly, because Pep, when drunk (which is not often), is mostly harmless, but takes a long time to process basic information, "don't do that. Drink a glass of water and get in bed."

"I will," Pep hums. 

"And call me in the morning," José adds. "So if you do end up doing something stupid, I can keep your ass at this club instead of on the streets." 

"You- thanks," Pep says. "Thanks." 

José dismisses him, sends him to bed and hangs up, but he moves the cordless phone into his bedroom and sleeps with it near the pillow, just in case.

 

"Why would you go anywhere else to stay an assistant?" Van Gaal asks. 

"Because," José tells him. "I'll never be more than an assistant here. But if I leave-"

"You might move up," Van Gaal says. "But you might stay an assistant in Portugal, too." 

"I won't," José says. 

 

When he leaves, he does it quietly. There's no press conference, but he does call Pep before the news is announced to the players. 

"Where?" Pep asks. 

"Benfica," José says. "They're not great yet-" 

"You'll make them, though," Pep says, and José can imagine him shrugging. "Still just an assistant?" 

José bristles at _just_. "For now," he says, tight. "But you know as well as I do that if I stay here, I could be head coach permanently and I would still just be 'the translator' to half of you." 

There's a lull. José bites his lip. "Good luck, then," Pep says, finally. 

"You too," José replies. "Are you going to renegotiate your contract again? Stay past this season?" 

"I don't know," Pep says. José figures, after the amount of times he and Luis gave the same answer, it's safe to assume Pep means _no._

> _"Please don't call me arrogant, but I'm European champion and I think I'm a special one." – José Mourinho_

Benfica is a mess. Not in the same way Barcelona was- they aren't trying to ruin their captain's career, for one, but a mess all the same.

José has a lot of work to do. 

 

"What do you think of Heynckes?" the management asks him, a few weeks after he arrives. 

They're looking for a new coach, José knows. "He's not bad," José says slowly. He's not entirely sure why they're asking him- if they're looking to keep him on as assistant, or- 

He doesn't quite let himself think about the possibility that they might promote him. It's there, in the back of his mind, but he doesn't give name to the thought, because then it might become a real hope, and he can't hope for something like that without it happening. 

"Are you better?" the sporting director asks, a week later, and José has his answer. 

"Yes," he says without any hesitation. 

 

The official announcement goes out a few days later, that José will be replacing Heynckes, effective immediately. 

"That was quick," Pep says. "What's it been, a month?"

José shrugs, even though Pep can't see him. "It's not like it was the original plan," he says. "But they offered, and I won't say I'm complaining." 

"Just like that? Total handover?" Pep asks. 

"They're twisting my arm about an assistant coach," José says. 

"Who do they want?" 

"Doesn't matter," José tells him. "I want Mozer." 

Pep laughs a little. "You're becoming very demanding," he says. "Power going to your head a bit?" 

"It's not that," José scoffs. "Mozer's better, though. I want who's the best, you know? And I know how I work with him, our styles fit nicely." 

"Okay," Pep says, backing off. José can picture him smiling to himself. "Well. Congratulations. Head coach." 

"You may henceforth refer to me as El Mister," José deadpans. He remembers the sound of Pep's laughter long after he hangs up. 

 

José keeps getting all of the Barcelona newspapers. He scans them every morning for word of Pep and mostly it's more of the same- _will he or won't he resign_ , along with a few articles about him hating Xavi, which José knows are bullshit (Pep and Xavi aren't close, he doesn't think, but Pep certainly respects the kid, and that's as good as friendship in José's book)- until one day, it's: _Guardiola Lets Contract Expire, Will Retire from Barcelona at Season's End._

It's not that he didn't see it coming- it's impressive, really, José thinks, that Pep managed to stay for so long. 

What surprises him is how quietly Pep has chosen to leave. That he is leaving on his own terms, with as little fuss or fanfare as he can manage- that after the years playing for Barcelona has probably taken off of his life, he's just going to walk away, no hard feelings- if it were him, José doesn't think he could do it like this. He would need a bang, a catastrophic exist that left the club reeling. 

He calls Pep the evening of his press conference.

"Okay?" he asks. 

"As much as can be expected," Pep answers. "I'm at the Camp Nou." 

"Oh," José says, not sure why he's surprised, because of course Pep would have wanted to say goodbye. 

"Remember when we won the Copa here?" Pep asks. 

"Yeah," José says. He remembers a lot from the Camp Nou, but that's always been one of the standouts. 

"It's almost better than that, to be here alone," Pep says. 

José can't picture loving any empty stadium, can't picture enjoying standing on the pitch and looking into dark, deserted stands, but he says "I can imagine," all the same. "Where are you going to go?" 

"I'm not sure," Pep says. "Italy, maybe." 

"Italy seems nice," José says. 

Pep laughs. "Does that mean you'll come visit?" 

"We'll see," José says. "Depends on where you end up. I've always wanted to go to Milan." 

 

Pep doesn't go to Milan; instead he goes to Brescia and it seems, from what José can gather, reading newspapers in a language he doesn't understand, that he's doing well, until all of a sudden, the headlines are talking about Pep being suspended for four months. 

"The fuck happened?" he asks Pep the next time they talk.

"Nothing happened," Pep says. 

"The papers say otherwise," José tells him. 

"Come off it, you aren't telling me that you of all people are believing the newspapers now?" 

"I'm not saying I believe it," José says, slows his voice down to become almost patronizingly slow. He knows Pep hates it. "I'm just saying that they're talking about you being banned for four months because of a drug test. Wanna tell me how much is true?" 

"It's all true, technically," Pep sighs. "But I didn't take anything. You know I don't." He sounds terribly alone. 

"Hey," José says softly. "Pep. I believe you." 

 

Life goes on. Football is constant, while Pep is less so; José doesn't blame him, but their phone calls start to drop off as Pep enters a court battle to clear his name and José gets busier and busier, coaching Benfica to two successful seasons and eventually getting a call from Porto, to be their head coach. 

He takes the job, and he and Pep work out an arrangement- Pep calls him after wins, he calls Pep after losses. It works, José supposes. It gives him an extra incentive to keep tabs on the Serie A schedule, and it gives him something to do in the evenings after a tough defeat, something other than nursing a glass of whiskey and obsessively going over film. Sometimes, he thinks he'd like to talk to Pep a little more often, but that's mostly an afterthought, saved for during their conversations when they're trying to catch up on each other's lives in the space of a few minutes. (Eventually, they stop trying to catch up and just start talking.)

"Is it hard?" Rui Faria asks one day. He has a folder with the details of the new fitness workout on the table next to him; José eyes it, and Rui slides it across the table. "I mean, keeping in contact, after you've left a club. Are you still close with anyone from way back when?" 

"There's not really a way back when," José shrugs. "But I'm close with Luis- Figo, and Pep Guardiola and I are- friends." 

If Rui notices the slight stutter in his voice, he doesn't mention it. "Oh," he says. 

"Why, are you planning on leaving me anytime soon?" José asks, raising his eyebrows just high enough that Rui knows he's joking. 

"No," Rui laughs. "You're stuck with me for life." 

 

José wins the league with Porto and goes out with his team to celebrate. It's not like leaning on a balcony in Barcelona, smiling quietly; it's loud and raucous and José's still smiling for the victory when he gets home, fumbles his keys in the lock and forgets to flick on the light before he toes off his shoes. That's why he notices the red light blinking on the answering machine, because he's forgotten to turn on the overheads. He presses the _Play_ button and slips his arms out of his suit jacket. 

"So, Mister Translator's gotten himself some silverwear," Pep's voice says, filling the room. José smiles. Pep sounds happy, younger than he has in years. "Congratulations, José, really. I wish I was there to celebrate with you." 

José slides his arms out of his dress shirt and undoes his belt buckle, then makes a grab for his phone. 

"Hey," he says, slightly breathless, when Pep answers. 

"Hi," Pep says, and his voice is rough with sleep. 

"Did I- sorry," José says, because he'd forgotten the time difference. "Didn't realize how late it was, but. 

"Don't worry," Pep says. "You won the league, you're allowed a little slip up." 

José laughs. "Are you going to congratulate me?" 

"From what I recall, I already did," Pep says. "But. Congratulations again!" 

"No," José says, waves his hand around a little bit, forgetting that Pep can't see him. "I mean, _congratulate me_. You've already got me half out of my suit just from saying hello." 

"Somehow I think that's more from you winning the league than me saying hello," Pep says drily. "But. If I were there, we could celebrate, yeah." 

"How?" José demands. He slides his belt the rest of the way out of his belt loops and tugs down his zipper, flops down on the couch and gets a hand down his pants. He feels a bit like a teenager, but he also doesn't care. He's won, he's won the league and the adrenaline is still thrumming in his veins. He's been half hard ever since he touched the trophy. 

"I'd let you fuck me," Pep says, simple, and José's stomach bottoms out. 

"Oh," he says. "Keep talking." 

Pep does, talks until José comes, then says goodnight and laughs when José can only grunt in response. He promises to call in the morning, and José falls asleep on the couch, the phone tucked under his cheek. 

 

As is slowly becoming the norm, José finds out about Pep moving to Qatar through the papers. They'd talked about it a few times, where Pep would go after Italy, but José had honestly not expected Qatar. Everything had been on hold for a few months while Pep had campaigned for sporting director of Barcelona, a move José thinks he'll never fully understand ( _"Sporting director? When you could still play?"_ ), and then- Qatar.

"What's there?" he asks. "What's there that you can't have in Europe?" Not the Champions League, he thinks, because that's all he's been thinking about for the past year. 

"I can relax there," Pep says. He's at home; José pictures him wearing sweatpants and his sweater, just like back in his kitchen in Barcelona. "I can have some peace and quiet, play football with no pressure." 

José doesn't understand how football can come without pressure, and he doesn't understand how that's what Pep could possibly want. "If that's what you need," he says, doubtful. 

"It is," Pep tells him. 

 

After Pep moves, there's radio silence for a while. José minds at first, misses talking to him, but as summer August turns into September and the season takes off, José starts to miss talking to Pep about football more than he misses talking to Pep. He misses the regularity of their conversations- he assumes Pep hasn't been winning many games, since he hasn't called. But it gives him more time to focus, and he likes that.

He falls into the routine quickly. He stops bringing the phone into the den with him when he settles down to watch film in the evenings, so he's surprised when it rings in the third week of September, as he's halfway through watching their first Champions League opponents, and he frowns when he has to pause the tape to get up and answer the call. 

"Hello?" He says, short. 

"Hey, José," Pep says. "How are you?" 

"I- Pep," José says. "Wasn't expecting you."

"We won today," Pep says. José hums into the receiver. 

"Congratulations," he says, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear and grabbing a pen as he sits back down in his chair, pulls his notebook back onto his lap. He hits the mute button on the remote control and starts the tape again. "You're liking it, then?" 

"Yeah," Pep says. "It's been- it's totally different, you know?" José doesn't know. "It's so relaxed and I have so much time, it's been exactly what I wanted. Fernando and I have been catching up-"

"Fernando?" José asks, snapping back to attention. His thumb hovers over the _Pause_ button. 

"Hierro," Pep tells him. José puts the remote control back down. "It's good to have him here- someone who knows what it's like to want to just relax."

José doesn't know what that's like. He says as much. 

"Aren't you relaxing right now?" Pep asks him. 

"No," José says. 

"Oh," Pep says. He sounds confused. "What are you doing, then?" 

"Watching film," José says. "First group stage is Wednesday." Pep doesn't reply right away, so he adds, "Champions League." 

"Right, right," Pep says. "I'm sorry to interrupt, I could call you back?" 

José can practically see the frown lines re-appearing in Pep's forehead. He doesn't like the mental image, so he grabs the remote and hits _Pause_. "No," he says. "It's okay. I'll take a break. Tell me about your new team?" 

Pep hesitates for a split second, and then starts talking again, tells José about the extravagance and the desert and José tries to listen, checks in every sentence or two, but he can't stop himself from tapping his pen against his notebook, glancing up at the paused image on the TV screen every now and then. 

He's tired the next morning, exhausted from finishing the film after talking to Pep and getting three fewer hours of sleep. Rui puts a glass of ice water in front of him before the morning tactics session, though, and José drinks it, thinks of the trophy he'll raise at the end of the year, and starts talking. 

 

Porto lose to Real Madrid in the group stage. 

"I know it's not El Clasico," José says when he calls Pep, "but-"

"It hurts like it is?" Pep finishes for him. 

"Yes," José snorts. He's in his kitchen, fidgeting. He's already rearranged the cutlery drawer twice, and he's started eyeing the good scotch that he usually saves for after victories. "Did you watch?" 

"Yeah," Pep says. "Fernando and I did." 

"You watched a Real Madrid match with their former captain," José says, frowning. "Did he make it out alive?" 

Pep laughs. He sounds happy. José doesn't remember what being happy feels like. (He was happy yesterday evening, after a successful training session, but that seems far away now, three points off of the group leaders and staring down the barrel of a tough draw in the knockout rounds.) "He's alive and unharmed," he assures José. "He's moving to a new place in a few weeks, it's got an enormous swimming pool. I'll have a nice tan next time I see you, I'd imagine." 

"That's wonderful," José snaps. "It's too bad I won't have a European Cup trophy to go with it, I'm sure it would compliment your tan perfectly." 

"I- José," Pep says, startled. "I'm sorry, I just thought you might like to talk about something else." 

"I don't," José tells him. "I want to figure out what went wrong so I can make sure it never happens again." 

"Okay," Pep says. "Okay, let me call Fernando and then call you right back?" 

"Why do you need to call him?" José asks. 

"So I can tell him I'll be late going to his this afternoon," Pep says. 

"Why are you going to be late?" 

Pep sighs. It's unbearably loud in José's ear, and he can practically see Pep rolling his eyes. "Because you always do your best thinking out loud," Pep tells him, and hangs up. 

They spend two hours talking over the match, and when José hangs up for real, he tells Pep, "Promise me you'll never coach." 

"Why's that?" Pep asks. 

"You'd be too good at it," José says. 

"I'm not allowed to be good at it?" 

"You are a great player," José tells him. "The best, even- maybe not in Qatar, but that's your own fault, but you had your years, don't make that noise. And it's my turn, to be a great coach. I can't have you getting in the way." 

He tries to laugh a little at the end, pass it off as a joke, but Pep knows him too well for that. "I'm not going to," Pep says. "Not right away. I need- this season's helping, but I need to love football again for that." 

"When, then?" José asks. 

"I don't know," Pep tells him. "I don't know how long that'll take." 

 

February comes, and with it comes the knockout rounds. "It's a good thing you didn't transfer to United," José tells Pep. 

Pep's called him this time, even though it's José who's won. José doesn't mind. "Why's that?" Pep asks. José can hear his smile. 

"Because you'd never forgive me for beating you," José says, and Pep laughs, because it really is that simple. 

"Fair enough," he says. "Is this you finally being happy for me, about Qatar?" 

"Sure, you can think of it that way," José says. 

"Congratulations," Pep tells him. "Who's up next?" 

"Manchester again," José says. "I'm not through yet." 

 

José doesn't call Pep after the tie in the second leg, but Pep leaves him a voicemail anyway. "You usually think of ties as losing, so I thought you'd- but I guess this one's as good as a victory, yeah? Through to the quarterfinals, so you're probably still out celebrating. Or you're already watching tape of Lyon. Don't work yourself too hard, José. I am going to want to see you when I'm on holiday." 

 

José starts calling Pep a lot more often after league matches. 

 

"Do you care, anymore?" Rui asks him. José takes the offered glass of ice water gratefully and sucks down a large gulp before he answers. 

"About?" 

"The league," Rui shrugs. "Here are the latest injury reports, by the way." 

José takes the folder from Rui and glances through it. "Thanks," he says. "You won't- if you don't want, you won't have to be a physio next time." 

"Next time?" Rui asks. 

"Yeah," José shrugs. "I won't be staying here forever." 

"How much longer?" 

José closes the folder and puts it on the top of the stack of papers to his right. "I've had offers." 

"I'd figured as much," Rui says. José hasn't told anyone about the offers, not wanting word to get out to the players, but he figured that Rui has become his shadow at this point. He's not entirely surprised that Rui's figured it out. "Are you going to take any of them?" 

"England," José tells him. "England would be nice." He stands up and grabs his practice plans and the glass of water. "I have a trophy to win first, though." 

"Not the league, then," Rui says, smiling a little and raising an eyebrow. 

"Not the league," José says, and they head out to practice. 

 

There's another message waiting from Pep when José gets home after tying the second leg against Lyon, moving into the semifinals. "José! Congratulations, José!" There's muffled noise in the background, and Pep snaps at someone. José can't entirely make out what he says. "Call me next time you win a game, yeah? Or when you make it to the final? I know we have the deal and everything, but." His voice is muffled for a second, his hand clearly over the phone. "You know, I want to be happy about this with you. What you're doing is- amazing, and I want to share that with you." 

José wanders into the kitchen and lets the rest of the message play to the empty room. He pours himself a glass of celebration scotch and picks up his phone. "I just got home," he explains, his voice much more relaxed than he would normally be, having this conversation. "Didn't want to talk to you with the whole team celebrating in the background." 

"Oh," Pep says. "No problem." 

"No problem? You sounded a little upset, in your message," José points out. 

"That was- we can talk about it another time," Pep says. "I don't want to ruin your celebration." 

"You already have," José says, sour. There's still a little bubble of euphoria in his chest, though, and he doesn't really mean it. 

"It wasn't that I was upset," Pep tells him. "It's just that Fernando doesn't understand the arrangement, and I've been talking to him a lot lately, and it does make sense that we could talk more often, about something other than the Champions League, you know?" 

José doesn't say anything for a long moment. "Fernando Hierro has nothing to do with us," he says, finally. "You're friends with him and I respect that, except for the part where you followed him to Qatar, because we wouldn't be having this problem if you'd maybe stayed in Europe-" 

"That's not fair, José," Pep tells him. 

"-but he does not get to tell you or me how to run this, whatever it is," José finishes. "The Champions League is very important to me right now." 

"I know that," Pep says. "I understand what that's like, José, you know I do, but that's- do you know what's important to me right now?" 

José thinks for a second. "Sand dunes," he says. He takes a long sip of his drink. 

"That's my point," Pep says. "You know what- now is not the time for this. Go celebrate, start watching your next round of film, I don't care. Or I do care. I don't know. I'll call you later, okay?" 

"Sure," José says, and hangs up. 

He takes his scotch to the den and puts in film, just like Pep thought he would, but it's not film of Deportivo, his next opponent. It's film of the 1997 Copa del Rey, and he doesn't take his eyes off of Pep for the whole match. 

 

Winning the Champions League isn't like winning the league. 

Winning the Champions League is tension throughout the final- José's nails have dug into his palms for the past ninety minutes, and he's gone through three sticks of gum. Winning the Champions League is throwing his clipboard in the air and running onto the field, celebrating with his team the way he never did when he won the Copa del Rey. It is _his_ team, they are _his_ players, and it is his trophy as much as it is theirs. 

 

"You did it," Pep says after congratulating him. "You won it." 

"I did," José says. He's moved into a stage of content. The win is still filling him, and he smiles to himself a lot, but it's quieter now. It's the knowledge that he is the best, and it's the most fulfilling thing he's ever felt. "I finally did." 

"Not that it even took you that long," Pep snorts. 

"Long enough," José shrugs. 

They rehash the match for a while, but Pep doesn't sound too enthused, so José makes himself stop babbling. "Are you coming back to Europe for the holiday?" 

"Thinking of it," Pep says. 

"You should," José tells him. "Come stay with me for a week."

"Just a week?" Pep asks, laughing a little, and José knows that it means he'll come. 

"Or longer," José says. "Open invitation." 

"Do you even know where you'll be living?" Pep asks. José imagines him raising his eyebrows. 

"Didn't know you kept up with the tabloids," he says, avoiding the question. 

"Well, I don't, not like you do," Pep says. "I don't know how you have time to read as much of their nonsense as you do." 

"Portugal for now," José tells him. "We'll see." 

"So you have had offers?" 

"Of course I have," José says. "I'm the best coach in the world, in case you hadn't noticed." Pep laughs again. "We'll talk about that when you're here." 

 

José's halfway through packing up his house when Pep arrives. 

"Glad to see you've cleaned up for me," Pep says when José lets him in. 

José doesn't apologize. "Moving, you know how it is." 

"I do," Pep nods. "So where are you going? You never said." 

They make their way into the living room. The books are all in boxes and there's nothing left hanging on the walls, but the couch is still there, as is the television. "England," José tells him. Pep nods, so he continues. "Chelsea." 

"That'll be a project," Pep says, sitting down. 

"I like projects," José tells him, stubborn. 

"Really? I thought you liked winning," Pep jokes. 

José sits down next to him. "I do," he says. "But it means more when you win with something you've built yourself, you know? Instead of something that was built for you." 

Pep nods. "Fair enough," he says. "Are you going to do an overhaul, then?" 

"Yes," José says. "I'm bringing Rui, definitely, and the club has money. I'll be able to buy a good number of players." 

"Rui," Pep says. "Your…physio?" 

"He'll be a fitness trainer," José says. 

"You talk about him a lot." 

José snorts. "About as much as you talk about Hierro." 

"Jealousy doesn't become you, José," Pep says, frowning a little. 

"It doesn't look good on you either," José shrugs. "Rui- is a colleague and a good friend, but. Not you." 

Pep looks at him for a moment, and José lets himself look back. Some of the wrinkles in Pep's forehead have smoothed out and the dark circles under his eyes that had become permanent towards the end of his Barcelona career are gone. "You look good," José tells him. 

Pep laughs and knocks their shoulders together. "You already got me into your house and I suspect your bed, it doesn't look like you have a guest room here, no need for flattery." 

"It's not flattery," José says. "You really look good. Happy." 

"I told you Qatar was what I needed," Pep says. "You look good too, José." 

"The Champions League was worth a year of beauty sleep," José tells him. 

"That's what the sacrifice was?" Pep asks. 

José shrugs. "I tried, anyway, to keep it at just that." 

Pep leans against him more fully. "You'll have to work on that, next time," he says. "At Chelsea." 

"You think I'll win it there, then?" 

Pep elbows him. "You're missing the point." 

 

"I'll try harder," José tells him, his voice quiet, when Pep gets into bed next to him that night. "It's just important to me, that's all." Pep rolls to face him and raises his eyebrows. "You are too, obviously, but." 

Pep rolls back. "Yeah," he says. "I know." 

 

José likes London. He likes the pace of it, how his energy is matched by the city and the club, and how when he tells his players to embrace change, they do. They keep up with him, so he speeds up, starts waking up even earlier to get through all of the press pieces, starts doing more interviews, starts letting the rest of the world in on his team, because he knows nobody will be able to catch him. 

"What's the point?" Pep asks. "You'll just make enemies." 

"That _is_ the point," José says. He's on his way to the training grounds and it's cold out. He loves it. "If everyone hates us, or resents us, then the players will have nobody to turn to but themselves. And that's when we win." 

"Themselves or you," Pep says, his voice low. 

"I'm not power tripping," José cuts him off. Pep snorts. "Fine, maybe a little, but it's working, you'll see." 

It does work, well enough to get him a league trophy by the end of his first season. "See?" José asks Pep when they talk, just before the summer holiday. 

"It's effective," Pep says. "But I'm sure there are other ways." 

"This is the fastest," José says. "If I hadn't given them this bunker mentality, they never would've gelled in one season." 

"Let's just agree to having stylistic differences, then," Pep says. "I don't want to ruin your celebration. 

"You aren't," José says. "I like arguing with you." 

"I'm not sure exactly what that says about us," Pep snorts. 

"Arguing with you makes me think better," José says. He's not sure how else he _can_ say it so that Pep will know it's a compliment, but Pep says, "Okay," so he doesn't worry. He has celebrating to do.

 

Things fall into a routine. José gets up, drinks his ice water, goes to training. He works his team hard- this season isn't going as well as the last- and he works himself harder, and after losses, he calls Pep. 

He's been living in a rented apartment, but decides to move into a real house once the season starts. He still has a lot of work to do, he thinks. He'll be here for a while. 

It's the first time José lets himself feel settled since Barcelona. He'd known that Portugal was a stepping-stone. He loves his country, but he is under no delusions; he's happy to be in England, in the best league in the world, and he's grateful to his Benfica and Porto teams for getting him here, but he has no plans to go back anytime soon. 

So he buys a house, and Tami and the kids settle in, learning English quickly, and for the first time in a long time, José feels less of the relentless need to move forward, on to something bigger, and more of the quiet desire to stay in place, to keep the good thing that he has. 

He knows it'll pass, probably soon, but in his more philosophical moments, he thinks he understands why Pep went to Qatar. 

 

"Mexico," Pep tells him after the New Year. 

"Mexico," José repeats. "That's not even on the right _continent_ , what are you thinking?" 

"Lillo's a great coach," Pep says. "I think I can learn a lot from him." 

"You're going to Mexico to learn from a great coach," José says, frowning. "Why not just come to Chelsea? I'd rather have you than Sheva any day, put in a bid and I'll spend Roman's money on you instead." 

"He's still trying to force that deal?" Pep asks. 

"Yes. Help me stop him." 

"I'm not getting into your political battles," Pep snorts. 

"No, you're going to Mexico instead. For Lillo," José says. 

"Yes," Pep tells him. "It's a great opportunity, you know? To play for a man like him. I couldn't pass it up." 

José sighs. "You just don't know how to retire quietly, do you?" 

 

"We're not going to win anything this season," José says. Rui looks up and frowns. 

"Never knew you to be such a pessimist," he says. José reaches forward and takes a sip of his water. Rui adjusts his glasses. 

"Just a realist," José shrugs. "And you have seen me be negative, we both know it." 

"Well," Rui says. "Sure, but never in public." 

José doesn't consider the restaurant public. He and Rui eat here at least once a week, often enough that they have their own table. The waiters know José's preferred bottle of wine and it's one of the few places in the city where he's not been followed by paparazzi. 

"This doesn't count," José tells Rui, who laughs. 

"Do I not count either?" 

"You aren't public," José says. "You count, though." Rui nods, smiling. 

"So why aren't we winning anything, then?" he asks. 

"You've seen our record," José says. 

Rui considers for a moment. "Sure, but we'll get a Champions League slot. I know that's not enough for you anymore, but it's still something." 

"It's not that, exactly," José tells him. "It's just that it'll be the first season in a while with nothing to show for it." 

Rui reaches for the wine bottle and refills his glass. "Maybe it'll be good," he says. "You have to remember how to lose to enjoy winning, you know?" 

José takes the bottle when Rui holds it out to him. "Very philosophical," he says. "I guess we're about to find out if you're right." He fills his glass and puts the bottle back down. "And when we do, I'll get saddled with Shevchenko." 

"So that's what's really bothering you," Rui says, raising an eyebrow. 

He's giving José an out, and José takes it. "I don't want him in my team." 

"Roman's checkbook says it's his team," Rui points out. 

"Roman and his checkbook know nothing about football," José grumbles, and the waiter arrives with their food. 

 

Pep goes to Mexico and Andrei Shevchenko comes to Chelsea. José fights with Abramovich about it, but Roman is the only man José's met who can match not only his obstinacy but his desire to win. It's just too bad, José thinks, that Roman has no idea what he's doing. 

"If he'd just _listen_ to me," José grumbles. "Then we _would_ win, no need for Shevchenko."

"The transfer happened, then?" Pep clarifies. 

"Yes," José says. "Against my wishes, against my advice, against common sense, the transfer happened. I should just throw the season to show him that buying one player will not make a winning team." 

Pep laughs for that, a loud and full-bodied chuckle. "You couldn't bring yourself to do that," he says. 

"No," José says. "I would never do that. But I should." 

"You like winning too much," Pep tells him. 

"I do," José agrees. "I'm a very simple man, you know. I like winning and good scotch and cashmere scarves –thank you for the belated birthday present, by the way, it's very nice, even though I won't be able to wear it for the next four months- and that's about it." 

Pep laughs again. "You might be simple in that way, José, but in every other, you're the most complicated man I've ever met." 

"That's because you haven't met yourself," José tells him. "How's Mexico?" 

"It's- it's been really good," Pep says. His voice changes, becomes more careful. José frowns. "Lillo's a great coach." 

"You've said that," José says. 

"It's true," Pep says. "He's- if Bassat had won the presidency and he'd coached Barcelona, none of, well, you know-" 

"The catastrophe," José supplies. He's not kept tabs on Barcelona, exactly, but Luis has, and fills in the details José can't get from reading the papers. 

"-wouldn't have happened," Pep finishes. 

"That good, really?" José asks, skeptical. "I don't think anyone's that good." 

"He is," Pep says. "Or, he could have been." 

"There's no point in thinking about _could have_ ," José says. 

Pep's silence says he disagrees. 

 

"Where have you been?" José asks, a few weeks later. "It's not like you to not call back." 

"Sorry," Pep says. "I've been in Argentina." 

José grabs a glass from the drying rack and fills it with water. "I'm sorry, I misheard you. Argentina?" 

"Argentina," Pep confirms. 

"And what exactly is in Argentina?" 

"Biesla," Pep says.

"The coach," José asks, only it's not a question. 

"Yes," Pep says. 

"What about the great Lillo? His wisdom isn't enough anymore?" José takes his water and the phone into the living room. He sets the glass down on the coffee table and sits down, puts his feet up. The season's hasn't yet started, but he's already tired. 

"I needed to talk to Bielsa," Pep tells him. "I needed- confirmation." 

"Most people go to a priest for confirmation," José says. 

"Confirmation of- an idea," Pep says. 

"What idea?" José asks. 

"That I'm going to start coaching," Pep tells him. José sits up straight, lets his legs fall to the floor. He presses his lips together in a tight line, and before he can say anything, Pep continues. "I've been working on getting my badges here." 

"You've been getting your coaching badges," José repeats. "Were you planning on telling me anytime soon?" 

"I would've, if you'd asked," Pep says, and he sounds sad in a way that he hasn't since he left Barcelona. José wonders why. "I wasn't sure that it's what I wanted, but. Now I am." 

"After going to Argentina," José says. "How long were you there?" 

"Just a day," Pep tells him. "I met Bielsa and we spoke for a few hours and it helped me decide. I'm no great player anymore, José, we both know that. I don't want to retire and move to a beach somewhere and settle quietly. I asked you once, how can you coach football? How can you watch it if you could be playing? But I know, now." 

"And how can you do that, exactly," José asks. 

"You told me," Pep says. "A long time ago. That as a coach, you have control over everyone. The conductor, so to speak. I might not be the one moving the ball anymore, but it would still be my match, you know?" 

"Yes," José says. "I do know. I have known for years. That's what I _do_ , Pep." 

Pep sighs loudly into the phone. "I thought you might be happy for me," he tells José. 

"I am over the moon," José says. "Congratulations, would you like to come take over Chelsea for me? I hear we're in the market for a new manager." 

"It's not like that," Pep says, not kindly. "I'm not trying to take your place anywhere. This is what I want to be doing, José, and it has nothing to do with you." 

José thinks, _it has everything to do with me._ "Okay," he says. "Well. I have some film to watch, so I'll call you back."

"This doesn't have to change everything," Pep says before José hangs up. 

It already has, though, José knows. 

 

"I'm going back to Barcelona," Pep says. 

"You're going back there," José asks. "They tried to run you out, they tried to ruin your career. And you're going back to them?" 

"Barcelona is more than the management during those years," Pep says. "I need them right now, and they need me." 

"You don't need them," José says. "Come to Italy with me, be my assistant." 

"So you are leaving England, then?" 

"Soon, I think," José says. "Roman is insufferable, and I've had offers." 

"What's the issue with Abramovich now?" Pep asks. "Is he not buying comfortable enough laundry bins anymore?" 

José snorts. "He has too many issues to count, but laundry bins aren't one of them. That was possibly the most pleasant trip I've ever had to and from a match." 

"So it's true, you actually did it," Pep laughs. 

"Of course it is," José tells him. "But, what do you say? Italy? No guarantees on which club yet, but I've always wanted to learn Italian." 

"I've already told Barcelona yes," Pep says. "I want to go back. I want them to be great again." 

"Well," José sighs, "if anyone's capable of doing it, I suppose it's you." 

It's the only way he can think of to tell Pep that he's happy for him, and it's not a lie- José _is_ happy for Pep, that he's coming back to Europe and getting his life back on track. (He's also happy that Pep is only taking a youth team. José isn't entirely sure how he'd react to having to line up against Pep, but he knows it wouldn't be good for either of them.) 

"Thank you, José," Pep says, and José knows that he understands.

> "Against Barcelona, it's difficult with eleven players but with ten, it's an historic achievement to win like this. It's the most beautiful defeat of my life." –José Mourinho

José leaves Chelsea in September. It's an odd reversal of his time at Benfica, but he's happy to leave. He loves the club and the league and would have been happy to stay, but he doesn't have the energy to deal with attacks from the press and from the higher-ups. (Nor, really, does he have the patience to deal with the higher-ups in general.)

He goes home for a while, to Portugal, and it's strange, to have a season off. He has offers coming in from various clubs every few weeks –he is the Special One, after all- but José isn't particularly interesting in taking over halfway through someone else's project. He wants time to build a team again. 

Barcelona calls him in the spring, and it's the first time José seriously considers accepting the offer. 

 

"How do you like Spain?" José asks Rui. 

Rui puts the car in drive and merges in with traffic. There are two freshly laundered suits hanging in the back seat. José puts his sunglasses on. "Spain's nice," Rui says. "Let me guess- Madrid? You really want to get in that revolving door of managers?" 

"Not Madrid," José tells him, "although I wouldn't say no to them necessarily. Barcelona called." 

"That's a shitshow if there ever was one," Rui says. 

"Exactly," José nods. 

Stopped at a red light, Rui looks over at him. José frowns. "What?" 

"Nothing," Rui shrugs. "It's just- you really love fixing things, don't you?" 

"How do you mean?" 

Rui turns back to the road. "Your teams, you like fixing them. I can't picture you taking on a team that's already doing well, I guess." 

José thinks about that for a moment. "It's not as much fun that way," he says. 

 

Two days later, Barcelona offer the job to Pep. 

"Come to mine," Pep asks when he calls. "We should talk." 

"We're talking right now," José points out. 

"In person," Pep insists. "It's been a long time since we've spoken in person." 

"Fine," José says, and finds himself on the next flight to Barcelona. 

 

Being back is uncomfortable, mostly because José's not here on his own terms. He'd imagined a triumphant return, the translator risen to head coach, coming back to lead a battered and broken team to victory once more. 

Instead, he gets a cab from the airport to Pep's house. He dozes in the cab, too tired and disappointed to take in the changes to the city. He has Pep's new address on his phone, so he rattles the address off to the driver and sleeps through the late afternoon traffic. 

Pep doesn't answer the door right away. José leans against the woodwork and stabs at the doorbell repeatedly, Satisfied by the _buzz_ he hears each time. 

"Dammit, José, be patient for once in your life," he hears Pep yell from inside, and a few seconds later, the door swings open. "José," Pep says again, quieter now. He smiles. "Come in." 

 

"No suitcase," Pep notices. 

"Not planning on staying for long," José tells him. 

"Why not?" 

"I have other offers to respond to," José tells him. "I'm in some demand, you know." 

"I didn't ask them for the position," Pep says. 

"But you knew I wanted it," José says, "and you didn't say no." 

 

Pep tugs on José's belt until José sits up and lets him slide it off. Pep undoes the button of his trousers and José lifts his hips, slides out of them. He lets Pep wrap a hand around him and start stroking him, but after a moment José pushes himself up on his elbows and flips Pep over, tugs the sweater over his head and holds him down by the shoulders while he works Pep's jeans off. 

"You aren't right for Barcelona," Pep tells him. 

José slides a second fingers into Pep, not bothering to be careful. Pep's hips hitch. "And you are." 

"This has been my club for my entire- ah, life," Pep says, working his hips back onto José's hand. "I know how to fix it." 

"Stop talking," José tells him, reaching for the condom that lies on the bed next to them. Pep does, so José slides into him, and Pep grunts. 

It's not good, exactly; it's rough and hard and fast and Pep's nails rake over José's back, leaving red lines down it. They're both bruised when they come, José first, and then Pep, spilling over José's fist with a strangled cry. 

José rolls off of Pep and they lie for long minutes, not talking. 

 

José starts collecting the Spanish daily football papers. He gets them sent to his new address in Milan and he goes through them not in the mornings, when he reads all of the papers related to his own team, but in the evenings, when he sits down to watch film before bed. 

All of the headlines are much of the same for the first few months, about the prodigal son coming home, hopefully to raise his beloved club from the ashes. There's nothing, of course, about the circumstances under which Pep left, and José resents that. 

"I don't understand how he could go back after that," he tells Rui on the way to training one day. 

Rui shrugs. "He loves the club more than he hates what happened," Rui explains. 

"I could never forget something like that," José says. 

"He probably hasn't forgotten," Rui says. "There are just more important things involved, for him. Why are you talking to me about this, though? I've barely met the man." 

They park, and José gets out of the car, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck. "Because I already know what he'll say," José says. "He'll say that leaving eight years ago has nothing to do with him coming back, but I know that's not true." 

"Why isn't it?" It's windy outside, and Rui's hair looks ridiculous. José reaches over and tries to pat it back into place, but as soon as he takes his hand back, it goes back to sticking up in all directions. 

"If he'd had the end of his career properly, he wouldn't have felt the need to come back and prove himself," José explains. 

Rui sighs. "Have you ever considered that maybe he just wanted to coach? He seems like a nice guy, José, I don't think he's doing this to spite you." 

"We had an understanding," José says. He doesn't elaborate further, and Rui doesn't ask. 

 

Pep starts calling a lot, because Barcelona starts winning a lot. 

For his part, José's Inter isn't having a bad season, but he finds himself calling more often than he would like, in comparison. He keeps tally marks in his calendar of points and of wins, and sometimes he shows it to Luis and they both frown. 

"That bastard," Luis says, not unkindly. "He's going to give Madrid a run for their money this season." 

"Has your allegiance changed so thoroughly?" José snorts. 

Luis shrugs. "Nobody at the Bernabéu ever threw a dead animal at me." 

"Fair enough," José says. "You and he are still friends, yes?" 

"It took us a while to get there, but yes," Luis says. "He was upset for a long time." 

"You did leave him to hold that train wreck together by himself," José tells him. 

Luis nods. "Yeah, but I had to. And he's moved past it now, so. Water under the bridge, and all that." 

José shakes his head. "I don’t know how he does it," he says. "He moves past everything, I don't understand." 

"That's because you can't move past anything," Luis tells him. 

José starts to say that it isn't true, but then rethinks. "Oh," he says. "I suppose." 

Luis shakes his head, smiling fondly. "For someone so smart, you're very dense." 

José smacks the back of his head. 

 

When May comes, José gets two things: silverware from Serie A and the Italian supercup, and issues of _Mundo Deportivo_ and _AS_ declaring that Pep is the coaching genius of the modern era. When he flips through them, there are pages upon pages singing his praises, picture after picture of him raising the league cup, the Champions League trophy (José feels a sharp tug of want in his gut), the Copa del Rey. 

(There is another pile of newspapers sitting on José's desk declaring that he himself is a failure. He's not sure which pile hurts more to look at.) 

"You can keep the Copa del Rey and the league," José tells Pep after congratulating him, "but the Champions League is mine next year." 

"I would say okay," Pep says, "but I kind of like it. Maybe I'll hang on to it." 

"I will pry it from your cold, dead fingers if I need to," José warns, and Pep laughs. 

José isn't entirely sure if he's joking or not. 

 

Luis invites him over for dinner in the summer. José spends a lot of time with Luis, has since he arrived in Italy, but he usually just shows up at Luis's doorstep, or vice versa. 

"I'm going to retire," Luis tells him over a glass of wine before they eat.  
"I'd figured as much," José says. 

Luis frowns. "How, Sherlock?" 

"You invited me over," José says. "Very formally, might I add. You clearly had something on your mind and you're becoming an old man, so it wasn't that hard to figure out." 

Luis snorts. "Sure, I'm the old man. At least my hair's the right color." 

"Silver is very becoming on me," José tells him. "It matches my trophy collection." 

"Which is dwindling as of late," Luis points out. 

"A double in my first season is hardly something to scoff at," José says, immediately defensive. "Give me one more season and I'll give you the God-damned treble." 

They move from the sitting room to the dining room and José helps himself to more wine. "The management will give you another season," Luis shrugs. "They'll give you your whole contract." 

"I meant you," José corrects. "Play one more season with me and you'll win everything." 

"You'll win it all without me, I'm sure," Luis says. "I'm an old man, remember? It's time for me to retire to a life of modeling contracts and luxury. No need to keep abusing my body like this." 

José snorts. "I hear you have to wax your chest to model these days," he says. "I don't think you'll be in terribly high demand." 

Luis waves his hand, not concerned. "How's Pep?" 

"That's an abrupt change of subject," José remarks. Luis doesn't say anything. "Pep is unwilling to part with Eto'o, at the moment." 

They both start eating, and the sound of cutlery clinking against itself echoes a little bit in Figo's large dining room. The ceilings are high and the table is bigger than it needs to be for two or three people. His whole house feels very formal, but it's oddly lived in- there are stacks of magazines piled up on one end of the dining room table and blankets and pillows are strewn across the various couches and armchairs. 

"Is that all you talk about with him now?" Luis asks. 

"What, Eto'o? No," José says. 

"Not Eto'o," Luis says. "Football. Is that all you two can talk about anymore?" 

"Oh," José says. He has to think about it for a long minute, and he can't remember the last time he spoke with Pep about anything else. "It's our schedules," he tells Luis. "We can only ever talk after matches, so it's just what works out." 

Luis shakes his head. "Somehow I don't think that's it, José," he says. 

José blinks at him. "What, then? Pep and I have been friends-" 

"Have been fucking, you mean," Luis interjects. 

"-for more than ten years," José finishes without acknowledging Luis's comment. (The fact of the matter is that he can count the times they've had sex on two hands, and every time was somehow related to football.) "We can talk about things other than football." 

"Uh huh," Luis intones, not convinced at all. 

 

José's house in Italy is nicer than his house in London. He's divided it into work rooms and home rooms, and while he spends most of his time in the work rooms, surrounded by stat sheets and DVDs, the home rooms are nice. They're smaller than Luis's, more cozy. He doesn't need more than a small family room, a decent sized library. He has a big bedroom, but he ends up sleeping on the couch more often than not, his reading glasses still perched on his nose. 

 

"I'll give you Zlatan for Eto'o," José says as soon as Pep answers the call. "Final offer." 

"You clearly haven't spoken to your legal team yet today," Pep says. "But I'll take Ibra all the same." 

"Done," José says. "I'll hammer out the contractual details later. How are you?" 

Luis's scolding is still fresh in his memory, which is irking because having Luis Figo's voice in his mind is the last thing José ever wants, and also because he hates feeling guilty. 

"I'm doing well," Pep says. "Having a quiet summer, more or less." 

"Are you talking transfers or otherwise?" 

"Otherwise," Pep says. "Apparently my transfer window is about to become much more exciting. As is yours, I hear?" 

José hums an affirmative into the receiver. "Took Sneijder off of Madrid's hands, you won't need to worry about him anymore." 

"My eternal gratitude," Pep says dryly, laughing a little. 

José racks his brain for something other than football to bring up. "The kids are good?" 

"What? Yes, they are," Pep says. "They're happy to be in Spain, so." 

"Good, good," José says. 

"And yours? And Tami, how is she?" Pep asks. 

"Good, they love Italy," José tells him. 

"I thought they might," Pep says. 

"They do," José says. Neither of them speak for a moment. "I should go, look at those contracts," José says eventually. 

"Okay, right," Pep says. "I'll call you in a few weeks, then?"

"Only if you win," José reminds him. "Well. Not _only_ , I suppose. You could- call otherwise, if you wanted." 

"Okay, José," Pep says, and they hang up. 

 

Before the season starts, Pep wins three more trophies. José gets three more phone calls. 

"Enjoy it now," he tells Pep, only half-joking. "I'm coming for you." 

 

José works his team hard at practice. He's reinforced the midfield- Sneijder and Motta will make a good combination, he thinks, and even if their first few games haven't gone well, Eto'o is fitting in nicely and José can see the pieces start to fall into a place a few games before it actually happens. 

He has Rui design a new fitness program that has all of the players groaning. 

"We will run," José tells them. "We will run for ninety minutes straight and then you can rest, and then we will run for ninety more minutes. We will run so much that you will think of matches as rest days, and defending for ninety minutes will seem like nothing." 

"Defending for ninety minutes?" Julio Cesar asks. "Why not attacking for ninety minutes?" 

José looks at him for a long moment. "It is impossible to attack for ninety minutes. It is possible, however, to defend for ninety minutes and attack for one, and that is how we will win games. We will not be complacent." 

And they do run- all of their drills incorporate changes of pace, stopping and starting, tracking back. José trains every last player to defend well in the box, and Rui gets all of their one hundred yard sprint times down by at least a handful of seconds. 

And the results start to turn in José's favor. He wins the Milan derby by four goals to nil and by the end of November, his squad has racked up more than thirty goals. 

"Defensive team, my ass," Luis says when he calls to congratulate José on the derby win. 

"I said we would defend, not that we would only be defensive," José says. "There's a difference." 

"So it would seem," Luis says. 

 

Everything goes well, in fact, until December, when José gets sent off. 

The crowd is loud when the free kick is awarded, calling for blood. José watches the proceedings for a minute- watches his players stand, hands on their hips, asking why, watches the ref ignore them. He stands up from his customary touchline crouch, stretching his legs, and whistles. Rui shouts something at him, but José chooses to listen to the racket of the stadium instead. He raises his hands and starts applauding the referee, nodding in his direction when he looks over. 

"Wonderful call," he says, raising his voice just enough. "How much were you paid to make that call?" 

He knows the red card is coming before the referee even goes for his pocket. 

Afterwards, with a final score of 2-1, Juventus winning, José calls Pep. 

"How are you?" Pep asks. "How was the match? I couldn't catch it." 

It occurs to José that Pep maybe doesn't assume that every time José calls, it's because he's lost. (Every time Pep calls, José assumes it's because he's won. He wonders, for the first time, whether or not that's true.) 

"Well," José says, "I was red carded, and we lost." 

Pep coughs. "You aren't a player, how did you manage that?" 

José shrugs even though Pep can't see him. "The ref was making terrible decisions." 

"Ah," Pep says. "And let me guess, you let him know that?" 

"In a manner of speaking," José agrees. 

"Well," Pep says, "don't make a habit of it. Fighting against officials, you'll never win." 

José laughs. "Really? Because the swarm tactics your players seem to be using are remarkably effective." 

"Whatever my players may or may not do," Pep says, "I always end the match on the pitch, not in the stands." 

"Fair point," José says. "But if you don't fight, you'll never win." 

 

José watches Pep's Barcelona lose to Sevilla in January, ending their defense of the Copa del Rey. He calls Pep, even though it wasn't his match. It goes to voicemail without ringing, which is not exactly surprising. When he was a player, Pep always shut down after losses. José expects that it's much the same now. 

"That was one of the trophies I told you you could hang on to," José says in his message. "Don't take it too hard, though. I have the weekend off, so. You can call, if you want." 

Pep doesn't call, but José keeps his phone on, just in case. 

 

Because he has taken to ignoring advice, even from Luis (the stilted awkwardness of the one conversation José remembers having with Pep in which he tried to talk about anything but football lingers in his memory), José doesn't pay any heed to Pep telling him to stay out of it with the referees. 

"It's not my fault that officiating in this country is terrible," he insists to Rui. "Besides, my staff is all fully capable of taking over, should they decide they want me to stop exposing them." 

"I think it's less about you exposing them and more about you being an asshole," Rui says. José lets him get away with it, because he lets Rui get away with most things. Rui has been his shadow for almost ten years; most of what he says is true, anyway. 

It comes to a head against Sampdoria in February. 

Sitting in the dugout instead of at the edge of his area, José goes through a half a pack of gum by the half an hour mark. He feels a little like Sir Alex must, he thinks. "Another red card? Are they fucking kidding?" José hisses to Rui, who just shakes his head. 

It happens before halftime- José gets out of the dugout to shout instructions at his players. "Two down," he yells, and crosses his own wrists in front of his chest, as if he's being handcuffed. "Do it anyway. Finish it for them, they should be out there with you, dammit!" 

Nothing happens immediately, but there's media fallout. José isn't surprised; there's a camera on him at all times these days and he'd been expecting as much. 

"Three matches," he tells his assistants at practice the next day. "And no, I will not be showing up in laundry bins," he adds, mostly for Rui's benefit. "But three isn't so bad. I'll be in the stands, right above the bench." 

 

Three matches turns out to be of more significance than he'd thought. They lose to Catania, and that should be the worst of it, but they only scrape seven points out of the next five matches, even once José returns, and Mario's form dips. José tries playing him anyway, and there is a fresh wave of sports dailies calling for his head. José tries benching him, and they still lose. The pile of papers grows. 

Then the Champions League knockout rounds begin in earnest, and everything changes. 

 

They draw Chelsea in the quarterfinals. 

José knows this Chelsea team. He built this Chelsea team, and while it might be a new manager at the helm, it's the same system at its core. There are a few different details here and there, but even so, José barely needs to look at game tape to plan out exactly how to break them down. 

"We've had a bad run," he tells his team the night before, in lockdown. "Everyone in the country knows that. They're waiting for us to crash and burn against this Chelsea team. I'm going to tell you right now- that will not happen."

It doesn't. José watches from the sidelines as his team wins in February, 2-1, and again in March, 1-0 at Stamford Bridge. It feels good to come back to England and win. José has always been fond of triumphant returns. 

Barcelona progresses, too. Pep calls him. 

"Congratulations," Pep says when José answers. He's in the car with Rui, driving home from the airport. 

"To you as well," José says. "Looks like we may face each other soon." 

"Does it?" Pep asks, and José can't tell if he's bluffing or if he has actually ignored the bracket. 

"Yes, unless you decide to lose in the quarterfinal," José tells him. 

"Oh," Pep says. "Well. I guess I'll be seeing you in Barcelona soon, then."

 

April comes and brings with it a semifinal win against Fiorentina in the Coppa Italia, along with a quarterfinal win against Moscow in the Champions League. 

"Rui," José says. "Rui Faria." 

"I'm here," Rui calls from inside José's house. He has his own house, of course, but spends most of his time at José's, it seems. Tami likes him, and so do the kids. 

"Do you realize how close we are to winning the treble?" José asks. 

"Um," Rui says. "Yes, but. One game at a time? We still have to get through Barcelona in the Champions League, and the league isn't over yet." 

José waves his hand around. "Yes, valid, but we are too close to fail," he says. "I won't let us." 

"It's not always up to you," Rui points out. 

José blinks. "Yes it is," he says. 

 

The newspapers piled up on José's desk every morning start to turn more and more favorable. (José particularly likes the ones that talk about how he became the first man to lead three teams into the semi-finals of the Champions League. He throws out the rest, because there are too many to keep and it's his policy that he throws them out at the end of the day, but he keeps one of those, rolls it up and takes it hope, presses it between the pages of his Italian dictionary to keep the edges from curling.) 

 

The San Siro is roaring. 

José can barely hear himself think over the noise as he crouches at the edge of his area, watching the dying minutes of the match. He's almost sad when the final whistle blows- there's nothing he loves better than watching his teams win. 

Winning, winning this match, is so much more than a quiet smile, a whispered word. Winning this match, going into the away leg with a 3-1 cushion, makes José's heart beat in time with the chants of the San Siro. He punches the air, euphoric, but restrains himself from celebrating too much. The tie isn't over yet and José knows that Pep isn't going to roll over and make this easy for him. 

He drags himself away from Rui and from Wesley Sneijder and makes his way to the other dugout, seeking out Pep. 

"Well fought," he says, holding out his hand. 

Pep takes it; his skin is warm and his palms are calloused. "Well won," he says, gracious in defeat in a way José has never been able to manage. His face is remarkably blank, though, even to José. He can't tell what Pep is thinking at all, until Pep says, "You've made my next few weeks very difficult," and José catches a glimpse of defeat in Pep's eyes. 

He gets a strange thrill in his stomach from it, from knowing how absolutely he's won, even if it's only the first leg of the tie. He feels guilty for it, and it occurs to him to wonder if he even should feel guilty, if he and Pep are anything more than colleagues anymore.

"When do you go back to Spain?" he asks. 

"Tomorrow morning," Pep says, and José thinks, there's only one way to find out if there's still anything between them. 

"I'll text you my address, if you want," he offers, and Pep contemplates. He swallows and José tracks the movement of his Adam's apple. 

"Alright," he nods. "I need a few hours, but." 

"Take as much time as you need," José says. 

 

"I don't have long," Pep says when José answers the door. José shows him in without asking questions. It's late - or early, depending – and José is tired, but he shows Pep into the kitchen, offers him a drink. 

"No, thank you," Pep says. "Look, José- if you invited me here to gloat, I'll just go back to the hotel." 

"I didn't," José says, a little taken aback. "Is that really what you thought?" 

Pep shrugs. "It's only fitting, I would guess." 

"Well, you're wrong," José says flatly. "I invited you so you wouldn't be alone tonight," he says. "I know how you are, after. You know." 

"Oh," Pep says, as if he doesn't entirely believe José, and José wonders what he's done to cause this. 

They fuck in the second guest room. José lets Pep take him, because it's what Pep needs after losing, it has been for a long time, even if José hasn't always given it to him. José flips them halfway through, though, forces Pep down and rides him, his hands braced on Pep's shoulders, and there's nothing comforting about it, it's every inch a struggle for dominance. 

Pep comes first, and José isn't sure if that means he wins or loses. 

"You can stay," he offers after he's cleaned up. 

"I shouldn't," Pep says. "We're leaving early, tomorrow." 

"Okay," José says easily. He's happier than he should be, now that he knows how little Pep seems to think of him, but he can't shake the glow of victory. "I'll see you in Barcelona, then." 

Pep nods as he gets dressed. "You know where I live," he says. "You're welcome to come over after, if you want." 

"I think that either way, it'll be a night to spend with my team," José tells him. "But thank you. Another time, maybe?" 

"Another time," Pep says, and he leaves. 

 

In the days leading up to the second leg, the Barcelona-based dailies put out articles about _Mourinho the Translator_ , returning to try his hand against their prodigal son. 

When José walks out into the Camp Nou behind his team and is greeted by a wall of sound even louder than that of the San Siro, he doesn't feel like _the translator_. He feels triumphant already. He's always liked victorious returns to humble beginnings. 

"Defend," he tells his team. "I don't care what it takes. Defend with everything you've got. Defend the way we've been training all season, and we will go to the final." 

Motta is sent off in under thirty minutes. José's nails dig half-moons into his palms. "Bullshit," he hisses under his breath, so only Rui can hear him. He doesn't care if it's a legitimate card or not. "In the box," he shouts, loud enough for his defenders to hear. "Get everyone in there!" 

Pep's attack is relentless, surge after surge of beautiful passes, crosses, short corners. José forces nine of his men into the box to defend, leaving Eto'o up front by himself. "You are superfluous unless you're defending," he tells Eto'o at halftime. "If you can score on a break, go ahead, but we won't be feeding you anything but long balls." 

The attack never stops; Pep makes changes, pulling up three strikers, but José, clenching his fists, watches his team hold strong, forcing terrible shots. "Hang on to this," he shouts. "Make them take the bad angles. Make them give it away." 

Barcelona does manage to score in the 84th minute, but they can't manage two, and as soon as the whistle goes, the stadium falls nearly silent. 

José's bench floods the field, his players in a pile, and José can't stop the smile from splitting his face in two for just a second.

 

He runs out to join them, holding his hand up, hands extended towards the sky in triumph. A gloved hand comes up around his chest and he stops short, Victor Valdes's arm wrapped around his torso. 

"What are you doing?" Valdes demands. He hauls José sideways. José barely looks at him, his eyes still fixed on the stands, reveling in his victory. 

"Celebrating," he says, solemn, and sidesteps as someone intercepts Valdes's next lunge. He raises both arms skyward and stands with his back straight even as the stadium sprinklers come on. 

"We're going to win," he tells his team. "We're going to win this tournament." 

The defeat has given him more confidence and more determination than any match has in a long time. "Remember how you told me once that you need to lose to know what it is to win?" José asks Rui over the celebrations. "I think I know what you mean, now." 

He goes to shake Pep's hand before leaving the stadium. "Should I call, later?" he asks. The wrinkles on Pep's forehead are awfully pronounced, and José notices for the first time that his hair is more grey than brown. 

"No, I think," Pep says. "You should celebrate. I can wallow for one night by myself," he says, laughing it off unconvincingly. 

"You can still have the league," José tries, but Pep waves him off. 

 

"It's been thirty eight years since Inter played in the final of this tournament," he says in the press conference after the match. "This is not a team of young players who can wait fifteen years to make the final – they will not have another ten opportunities to play in one. Against Barcelona, it's difficult with eleven players, but with ten, it's an historic achievement to win like this. It's the most beautiful defeat of my life." 

 

"Anti-Madridismo," Pep says the next time they speak. "That's what you think? That I only wanted the final so I could win it at the Bernabéu?" 

"Not entirely," José says, "but I think that for Barcelona –not necessarily you, but Barcelona, it was a contributing factor. An extra incentive, if you will." 

"You don't understand at all," Pep says, and José doesn't ask what he's talking about. 

 

José won't say out loud that he's expecting the Champions League, not even to Rui, but he is. 

This win, in Madrid, it feels like coming home. Lifting the Champions League trophy with his team after a convincing win in the final is a much quieter feeling than the victory against Barcelona had been. 

It's only when he recognizes that when José realizes just how worried he'd been, going into the semifinal tie. 

 

"Thank you," Wesley Sneijder says, hugging José hard enough for it to hurt. "Thank you." 

He's drunk, José's sure, but he doesn't care. They all deserve it, after the season they've had. ("I told you we'd get the treble," he'd said to Luis after clinching the league title for the second year in a row.) 

"Thank _you_ ," José says. "You've done everything I've asked of you to make this season what it has been. I'll be shocked if you don't win the Ballon d'Or." 

Wesley laughs. "Can I ask you something, though?" he says, more serious now. 

"Of course," José says, because it's a policy of his that he remains open with his players. 

"Are you going to stay?"

José bites his lip. "Honestly, no," he says. He holds up a hand before Wesley can say anything else. "Madrid have been making offers, and I would be a fool to turn them down." 

 

It's announced in the press a few days later that José has been appointed as the new manager of Real Madrid. 

He waits for the call from Pep, but it never comes. He talks to Luis, instead. 

"So I'm not the only traitor from our years anymore," he jokes. 

José laughs. "Somehow I think I'll be able to escape the animal carcasses being thrown at me, though," he says. "They never loved me as much as they did you." 

"Even so," Luis says. "Once a culé, always a culé? That's Pep's philosophy, at least. How's he taking it, by the way?" 

"I don't know, actually," José says. "I haven't spoken with him since the announcement." 

"Oh," Luis says. "Well, I have."

"Why'd you ask, then?" José asks. "You could just tell me yourself." 

"I could, but I won't," Luis tells him. "This is a conversation you need to have with him yourself." 

"Okay," José says. "Fine. I will talk to him myself. Thank you for nothing, useless traitor." 

"You're welcome," Luis says, impervious, as always, to anything José can throw at him. 

Sometimes, José wishes Pep were more like Luis.

> "We worked together for four years. He knows me, I know him and that's all. If he wants to go by things written after the Copa del Rey by friends from the written press or Florentino Pérez, with his milkmaid's tales, then fine. If that matters more than our relationship, then that's up to him. I am not going to justify my words. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth when someone you had a relationship with does [what he has done]." –Pep Guardiola

After he is officially released by Inter, José is in Madrid within three days. He signs a lot of contracts and makes a lot of phone calls and everything seems to drag, but then it's a quick flight and all of a sudden he's in the Bernabéu, shaking Florentino Pérez's hand.

It's exhausting; José hasn't slept much in the past three years (or eight, really, but he downplays it, mostly for Tami's benefit), but he's not slept at all since the talks started in earnest. It's also exhilarating. José shakes hands with the club higher-ups and smiles for more cameras than he thought could fit in a room and tells the press how excited he is to be here. 

"I have coached at many clubs in my career," he says, "but I am most excited for Real Madrid. If one doesn't coach here, there's a blank spot on the books. This is the biggest club in the world, and I am thrilled." 

The journalists eat it up, and José sits back in his chair and smiles. 

 

"So, you're selling Ibrahimovic and you don't even have the decency to get him to a proper club?" 

Pep's silence is enough for José to figure out exactly how foul his mood is. It's the first time they've spoken since José's come to Madrid, and in retrospect, he probably should've been treading more carefully. 

"Why isn't Milan a proper club?" Pep asks. He doesn't sound like he's much interested in José's answer, but José gives it anyway. 

"You're sending him to his –and my- greatest rival," José tells him. "Outside of Spain, now, anyway." 

"That's funny," Pep says. "I wasn't sure if rivalry meant anything to you anymore." 

José has to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from snapping at Pep. 

"It was the right offer," José says. "It was a career move, nothing more. I had to move on from Italy, and this was the right offer at the right time." 

"Barcelona built you," Pep tells him. "And now you're coaching Madrid." 

"No," José says. "Barcelona built _you_ , which is why you're still there in spite of all the shit they pulled on you ten years ago. Barcelona gave me an opportunity, which I took, just like I'm taking the opportunity Real Madrid is offering now." 

Pep is silent for a long moment, and José starts to wonder if he's ended the call. "I guess it's something you could never really understand," Pep says, quietly. 

"How is that, exactly?" José asks. He sounds like he's shouting, in comparison. 

"Your loyalty is different, as a player," Pep says. "I just wonder if you would have done this, if you'd played for Barcelona." 

José bristles. "Why don't you ask Luis," he snaps. "He doesn't seem to have had much of a problem with it." He doesn't hang up on Pep, but he comes close. "I have to get to a meeting. I'll talk to you later." 

 

Madrid is different. 

The pace is different than Milan or London; it's hurried and relaxed all at once. José is under a microscope at all times- within a week, he's found his photograph in five different magazines, picking up his dry cleaning with Rui. 

He is told in no uncertain terms that anything less than the treble would be failure. The pressure is immediate in a way that almost takes José by surprise. The season hasn't even started yet and he's already losing sleep over fixtures. 

"This is not a building year," Jorge Valdano tells him in one of their many meetings. (José doesn't like Valdano. To be fair, he doesn't like more than half of the boardroom staff, because they all think they can do a better job of coaching than he can, but he likes Valdano least of all of them.) "A club like Real Madrid doesn't allow for an adjustment period." 

José raises an eyebrow. "It's funny that you think I'll need one," he says. 

Madrid is different, and José loves it. 

 

Luis tells him, "If you don't fix things with him now, they're just going to get worse once El Clasico rolls around." 

"Is that what you did?" José asks. "Tried to fix it right away?" 

"No," Luis says. "I waited a year to let him cool down, and that was the worst mistake of my career." He chuckles a little. 

"You and he have very different opinions about your career," José says. 

"I'm aware," Luis says. "I let him think he's right, mostly. He's much less grumpy that way." 

"Is that the secret? Just let him think he's right?" José asks. "I don't know if I can do that." 

"You can't," Luis tells him. "You like having the last word too much." 

"Yes," José says. "I do." 

Luis laughs again. 

 

José drives to Barcelona for the World Cup. It's his olive branch, and Pep seems to recognize that when he opens the door and lets José in without comment. 

"So," José says. "I’m thinking Spain this year, for my bracket. Maybe the Netherlands." 

Pep offers him a beer. "The Netherlands?" he asks. 

"Sure," José says. "Sneijder's come into his own quite nicely, as of late -no small thanks to me, might I add- and Robben's not injured. From what I gather, their keeper's quite good as well." 

"From what you gather," Pep repeats. "Should I take that to mean you're looking at replacing Casillas, if you're scouting keepers?" 

José snorts. "I like my head, thank you very much," he says. "And I don't want dead animals thrown at my by my own stadium." 

They settle in Pep's living room, which is devoid of any football memorabilia. There are a few prints on the wall, pieces José vaguely recognizes from visits to the Prado. Most of the room is taken up by a bookshelf that spans the greater part of two walls; the television is nestled in the unoccupied corner. 

"You always were well-read, but this is impressive," José remarks. 

"I had a lot of time to think, a few years back," Pep says. 

"I remember that," José says, trying not to sound too defensive. "You're friends with the one author, what's his name?" 

"Martí i Pol," Pep says. He points to the bookcase; José follows the line of his arm without really paying attention. "He dedicated that one to me, the year we won the Copa del Rey." 

And José does remember- he remembers Pep reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose, the bedside lamp on. He remembers that on the rare occasion he stayed overnight, Pep would recite lines, more for his own benefit than for José. 

"Do you still have some memorized?" José asks. 

Pep looks at him for a long moment, and José can't quite read his expression. "Yes," he says, finally. "But I'm not reciting any now, there's a match starting." 

He looks away to turn on the television and the moment dissipates. Later, though, in Pep's bedroom, they sit on opposite sides of the bed and while José scrolls through the latest news reports on his laptop, Pep opens one of the books of poetry and reads out loud, quietly and to himself, but José listens all the same. 

 

"Have you signed anyone yet?" Pep asks before the Germany – England match. 

José looks up from the stove. He's cooking, nothing fancy, but cooking all the same, and it's alarmingly domestic in a way that he hasn't been with Pep since leaving Barcelona. He remembers it feeling a lot more natural back then, but then again, he supposes that they were starting a relationship, not trying desperately to salvage one. 

"I'm not telling you my secrets," José tells Pep, quirking the corner of his mouth up just enough. 

"Just wondering, just wondering," Pep says, throwing his hands up. 

"There are two Germans I want," José concedes. "You can't have them." He points a wooden spoon at Pep in what he assumes is a threatening manner. 

"I'm not looking at any Germans," Pep tells him. "They're all yours." 

"You'll regret that in a few months," José says, smiling to himself. "Although you have Villa now, so I suppose you can't complain." 

"I have my cantera," Pep says. "I don't need your German midfielders." 

José narrows his eyes. "And why exactly do you think I'm going for midfielders?" 

Pep shakes his head. "It's like you think I haven't been watching your teams for the past ten years. You love midfielders. And defenders, which frankly is what you'll need to buy, the way my attack is shaping up, but." 

"Oh," José says. He pauses. 

"You really do think I haven't been watching you," Pep says slowly. 

"Well," José tries. "Not entirely, just. I hadn't thought you watched all the time. You haven't exactly had a surplus of free time these past few years." 

"When I have free time, I spend it on you," Pep tells him, solemn. "You wouldn't be staying here right now if this wasn't serious, you know that? If this hadn't been something real, all those years ago? I'm worried, José. I'm worried about what being in the same league will do to us, so I have to believe that we are worth saving."

José swallows past a sizeable lump in his throat. He wonders when that got there. "This doesn't have to change everything," he says, and it feels weird for him to be the one saying it. 

Pep doesn't reply, but he doesn't have to. José already knows what he's thinking: _it already has_.

 

José is given free reign with Florentino Pérez's checkbook, so he spends enough money to sustain a small country and then packs up and takes his team to L.A. for preseason. 

California is hot and dry and José sweats every time he walks outside. His cheeks turn pink from standing in the sun all day and he works his new players hard. 

"This is a complete overhaul," he tells them in their first official team meeting. "I expect you all to buy in, and I expect you all to buy in now. This is not a building year. This is a winning year, and to win, you need to listen to me. Your fitness is the first thing we will be working on, but it will be different from your previous coaches. Everything you do, you will do with a ball at your feet. The journalists like to talk about how the football is glued to Messi's laces. By the end of the season, they'll be talking about how every man in my starting eleven also has the ball glued to his laces. Understood?" 

They run sprints and they do plenty of full field running drills. José is pleased with how they respond; more than a few stay late and come early, putting in extra work. 

He doesn't take calls from anyone except the club management. 

"I'm here to focus on this team," he tells Rui when Rui asks if he's spoken with Pep recently. 

"Sure," Rui says. "Barcelona won the Supercopa recently, and I know you two have some sort of arrangement about matches, so I was just wondering."

"I know they won," José says. "It's another trophy I have to match." 

Rui blinks. "Competing like this is probably not going to be good for you," he says. 

"Not to compete with him, to make Pérez happy," José clarifies. "Pep and I don't compete like that." Rui tilts his head to the side and purses his hips. "Fine, yes we do, I suppose. _I_ do, anyway, which is what I suspect you're hinting at." 

"You know me well," Rui says. 

 

José doesn't want more enemies than he needs, so he meets with his two new captains. (The club won't let him override their current policy of the longest-serving players being the captains. José is fine with Casillas, trusts him to keep the team under control, but Ramos has a temper that worries him.) 

"It's a lot of change," Iker says. "And it's all been very quick. But we know the expectations." 

"That's all I'm asking, right now," José says. "There's a lot more coming. Give them a heads up." 

 

When they get back to Madrid, the real work begins, and despite all the progress he's seen them make, the team draws their opening match against Mallorca. 

José goes home and sleeps on it for a few hours. Then he gets up, drives back to Valdebebas, and starts poring over the film. It doesn't take him long to figure out what the problem is, but he takes the DVD with him when he leaves anyway, to watch again at home. 

He stops by the practice pitch on his way to the parking lot. Cristiano Ronaldo is there, lining up free kicks. José watches in silence for a few minutes. The first ball curves just over the crossbar, but the second two smack into the upper corner beautifully. Leaning against the fence, José applauds. Cristiano turns around. 

"Hey, coach," he says, jogging over. There's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

"You should be resting," José says. "I'm going to work you very hard tomorrow." 

Cristiano shrugs. "I am resting," he says. "It's very peaceful, to be here alone." 

José remembers Pep calling him from the empty and darkened Camp Nou, the night he transferred. "So I'm told," he says. Cristiano tilts his head, questioning, but José shrugs it off. "Take a few more, but get home soon. I need you alert tomorrow." 

"I go to sleep before ten every night, coach," Cristiano tells him. "Don't worry about me. Get some rest yourself." 

"I'll be too busy planning how I'm going to torture you tomorrow," José says, and Cristiano laughs as he jogs back out onto the pitch. 

He stays and watches a few more, sees the way Cristiano adjusts when something doesn't go perfectly, and for the first time in a long time, José feels a tug of want in his gut. He wants to know what it's like to curl a ball that beautifully, to play that fluidly. He hasn't wanted to be on the pitch this much since the last time he watched Pep play. 

 

"Do you miss it?" 

"Miss what?" Pep asks. 

"Is it weird, to not be able to just run onto the pitch with them?" José clarifies. He can kind of see it in the way Pep coaches, how he's unable to stop himself from running along the touchline, the energy he shares with his players almost furious in nature. But José wants to hear him say it, needs the confirmation. 

"Oh," Pep says. "Yes. It is." 

"You said once that you didn't think you could watch from so close," José says. "How can you now?" 

"Well," Pep says, "Those who can't play, coach." 

It stings. José isn't sure if he should laugh or be insulted, so he doesn't choose. "I have to go," he says. "I expect you'll be calling me after the weekend." 

He hangs up before Pep can reply, and he takes that satisfaction with him when he gets in his car and heads to Valdebebas. 

 

It takes three more draws before José decides that he has to change his tactics. He's not willing to give up on the league so early in the season.

 

Iker Casillas is a quiet man. 

José wasn't expecting him to be loud, exactly, but he supposes that he was expecting a more commanding figure. And Iker is commanding on the pitch, and his teammates listen to him no mater how softly he speaks in the locker room, but sitting across from him in a restaurant in the middle of Madrid for lunch, gripping his glass of ice water with one hand, he is remarkably quiet. He's waiting for José to get to the point, José supposes, which suits him. Goalkeepers have never been good at taking the offensive, in his experience. 

"How are you liking the city?" Iker asks, but José waves him off. He hates pleasantries and small talk. 

"The city's great. That's not what I asked you here to talk about, though," José says. 

"Okay," Iker says. "What, then?" He picks him his glass and takes a long drink. There's a ring of condensation left on the table, and José stares at it until Iker puts the glass back down. 

"I told you over preseason that there would be a lot of changes," José starts. Iker nods, so he continues. "I'm going to start making more of those changes. None of your coaches have done this before, I don't think, but I promise you that I wouldn't do it if it wasn't absolutely necessary." 

"What are you going to do?" Iker asks. 

"Don't worry," José assures him. "It's nothing for practice or concentration. I'm going to start using the press more." 

Iker frowns. "More than you already do?" It startles a laugh out of José. 

"Very perceptive," he says, smiling at his captain. "And yes, more than I already do. It's nothing that will directly concern you or the team," he continues. "And it's not something I'll be discussing with the team as a whole, because I prefer for practice to be just for practicing, as you know." Iker nods. "But if there's any uproar, you can assure them without a guilty conscience that everything I'm doing and saying is for our benefit as a team." 

Iker looks confused. "What exactly are you planning on doing?" 

"Nothing drastic," José says. "I've been making this sound very serious, I realize. It's nothing I haven't done at other clubs. It's just- a different approach to the media than has been taken here. I wanted to give you a heads-up." 

"Okay," Iker says, uneasy still, José thinks, but he sits back in his seat and closes his menu. "So, how _are_ you liking Madrid?" 

José laughs, shaking his head as he closes his own menu. The waiter starts to approach them, and José smiles at Iker. "It's a beautiful city," he says. "It really is." 

 

"This isn't your usual style," Rui points out, holding up a copy of _Marca_. José's face is on the cover. 

"On the contrary," José says. "It's exactly my style." He pulls out his own copy and flips to his interview. "Every other team in La Liga is going to hate us for this." 

"They already do hate Real Madrid, if you hadn't noticed," Rui points out. 

"I have," José says. "But the country isn't actively against the club. I'm going for a complete bunker mentality here, more than at Chelsea." 

The article itself isn't that bad, José thinks. It's just not something that has been done yet. _José Mourinho accuses La Liga teams of 'not trying' against Barcelona_ , the headline reads. 

Rui shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You know what you're doing," he says. 

 

"Is this what you were talking about?" Iker asks. He's holding a copy of _Marca_. 

"Yes," José says. "Can you put that away, please, it's time for a film session." 

"This isn't what Real Madrid does," Iker tells him. 

"It's what I'm doing for Real Madrid," José says. "You as a team need to stop being so dependent on everyone else. You need to depend only on yourselves. If the most effective way of getting you to do that means the rest of the table turns against you, that's what I'm going to do." 

Iker presses his lips together, but he doesn't argue. José considers the whole thing a success. 

 

Pep refuses to comment in the press. He comments to José in person, instead. 

"You're at that club for all of a month before you start attacking us?" Pep snaps. 

"I didn't attack you," José says. "Far from it, actually." 

"You implied that we don't earn our wins. You know this club, José, or at least, you used to. You know that's not true." José's fairly sure that Pep is pacing. 

"I don't know your club anymore," José says. "I knew your club more than ten years ago. A lot has changed since then." 

Pep exhales slowly. "You know me, then. Doesn't that count for anything?" 

 

Madrid's season starts picking up in October. José finds himself calling Pep less and less often, winning more and more matches by wider and wider margins. (Pep calls him every weekend, to José's slight chagrin. By the beginning of November, he stops bothering to remind himself that it isn't a competition.) 

It's November when everything goes to shit. 

 

They go into El Clasico as league leaders. 

José doesn't need to remind his team that there's no margin for error. They know it, everyone in Spain knows it, and it ends up not mattering at all. 

It's a defeat the likes of which José has never experienced. 

Ninety minutes and five goals later, they are no longer La Liga leaders. José can barely bring himself to shake Pep's hand, and although he says otherwise in his press conference, he has a sinking suspicion that second place is where Real Madrid will end the season. 

 

"I'm not going to say congratulations," he tells Pep when he calls, later that night. 

"I hadn't expected you to, really," Pep says, and José doesn't bother to try and figure out if he's being scathing or sympathetic. "I'm surprised you called at all." 

José purses his lips. "We have an arrangement," he says. "I am a man of my word." 

Pep is quiet for a minute. "I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he says. 

There's a tension headache at José's temple that's been throbbing for three hours now. He rubs at it. "You never do." 

Pep doesn't ask what he means, and he doesn't elaborate. 

 

Even though losing to Barcelona feels like losing the league, Madrid doesn't fully let it slip away until January, against Osasuna. 

"You play as if the only matches of the season that matter is against Barcelona," José rails in the locker room. Nobody says anything. "That is a pride match. I understand that. But the league is won and lost against Osasuna, against Hercules, against Zaragoza. I have said publically that other teams in this goddamn league don't show up against Barcelona. Well, you don't fucking show up against them. Nothing can ever be assumed in this sport. Today you have lost the league because you assumed that this match was three points in the bag." 

He sings a different tune to the reporters that swarm him when he leaves, and Rui frowns at him. "You aren't usually one for double standards," he says. 

"The team needs to know the truth," José says. "The rest of the world needs to know that we're unified. I'm just giving everyone what they need." 

 

"I'll say it this time," José tells Pep when he gets home and calls. The phone is cool against his cheek. "Congratulations. La Liga for how many years running?" 

"It's unlike you to give up so easily," Pep says slowly. 

"Well," José shrugs, "it's not like I'll make hanging on to your lead easy for you or anything. But if I were you, I'd take the congratulations now, because I'll be a lot harder pressed to say it again in May." 

Pep doesn't say anything. José's stopped expecting him to.

 

The possibility of it has been on the table since December- five Clasicos in two weeks. José's had it in the back of his mind since he first saw the Champions League draw, and he knows the rest of his team has, too. 

That doesn't mean they're ready for it when April comes. 

 

José remembers details of every match he's ever coached. He remembers specific rosters, officials decisions, goals and assists. 

For two weeks in April, there is a blank folder in the filing cabinet of his memory. 

He remembers general things, like crouching on the touchline, punching the air for an awarded and well-taken penalty kick. He remembers shaking Pep's hand, maybe a little too firmly. (Pep looks as tired as José feels. It's something that registers, but doesn't make José sad, and José wonders when he stopped caring.) 

 

Pep doesn't call him after they tie in La Liga. José doesn't call, either. 

He texts, instead, _See you in a few days, hope you're ready to play with only eleven men, and I'm not talking about the stadium as the twelfth man_.

 _You had a penalty as well_ is Pep's reply. José doesn't feel like arguing, so he switches his phone on to silent and goes to bed. 

 

José picks up a ban after the first leg of the Champions League, to absolutely nobody's surprise. 

"Should I be waiting for you to show up in a laundry bin?" Pep asks before the match. 

"For you, I would be more subtle," José tells him. 

"Subtle is the last thing you've been in the past few weeks," Pep says. 

José shakes his head. "The press distorts things," he says. "You should know that better than anyone." 

"Not better than you," Pep says. "Everything you say to them is deliberate." 

"I wouldn't pay it much mind if I were you," José tells him. "If you do, it'll mean I've won half of the tactical battle." 

"You've spoken about me personally," Pep says. "I can't ignore that, José." 

José closes his eyes and rubs his temples. "I've spoken about Pep Guardiola, Barcelona coach. I've not spoken about you personally." 

"There's no difference," Pep tells him. "There hasn't been for a long time." 

"There's always a difference," José says. 

"There's no difference," Pep repeats. "You might have known this if you'd ever played for a club, if you'd ever felt any loyalty."

"I have been loyal to each of my clubs for the duration of my contracts," José says, defensive. "Just because I didn't have to go crawling back to the club that tried to end my career doesn't mean I don't have loyalty." 

"You're missing the point entirely," Pep says. "I'll see you on the pitch." 

"No, you won't," José says. "I expect you're somewhat pleased about that." 

Pep doesn't deny it, so José hangs up. 

 

He watches the second leg of the Champions League in a hotel room. It's a dirty game, and it makes his blood pressure go up even more to watch it from the penthouse suite of a hotel five blocks away from the stadium. He calls Rui and keeps him on the line for the duration, but barking instructions doesn't bring the same satisfaction from long distance. 

He does a good job of keeping it together until the final whistle, but when it goes, he hangs up with Rui and lets himself go. 

The bedding is strewn across the room; glasses from the bathroom have shattered against the walls; the television is crooked on its stand. He's sweating and his jaw is clenched. The headache at his temple has become permanent. 

He's out of La Liga and out of the Champions League and for the first time since leaving Barcelona, he doesn't know what to do. 

He calls Pep. 

For the first time in a long time, Pep doesn't answer. 

He doesn't answer the first time José calls, nor does he answer the second or the third. José doesn't leave a voicemail until the fourth time. 

"Don't call me, you bastard," he snaps into the receiver. "Don't call me after you win the Champions League, because it should be my team going to the final in the first place." He hangs up, but a few minutes later, he calls back. 

"Watch your back next season," he says. "I will crush you." 

He's more angry than sad. He hangs up, and then he throws his cell phone against the wall. When it lands on the floor, broken, José feels more satisfied than he has since November. 

 

Pep doesn't call him after he wins the Champions League. He can't; José has a new phone number. 

 

They don't see each other in person until summer. It's a brief encounter. 

"You look good," Pep says. 

"So do you," José tells him. "Silver suits you." He gestures at Pep's hair. 

Pep touches the hair at his temples, laughs a little. "I thought you meant the trophy, but I suppose this is just as good a compliment." 

José inclines his head slightly. "It'll be all you'll have left after next season," he says, and he lets himself smile. 

It's a lot easier now, talking to Pep. It bothers José only because he doesn't like thinking that he wasted eleven years on something that they both would've been better off without. 

"I don't miss you," José tells Pep, because he can. 

"I do miss you, a little bit," Pep says. He shrugs. "But I'll be seeing you soon enough." 

"August," José says. "I'll see you in August." 

"Better polish the trophy so it'll match my hair when I lift it," Pep tells him. 

José laughs, loud and real. "In your dreams."


End file.
